


What It Sounds Like

by felsics



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), canon typical gore i guess. canon typical gross., cured zoe and lucas AU, it's zoe/oc happening on the side (f/f), so basically i am just sitting here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 71,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23962681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felsics/pseuds/felsics
Summary: Two serums is more than enough.
Relationships: Lucas Baker/Ethan Winters
Comments: 39
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god they were roommates.

Zoe holds the pair of syringes with open palms, still nervous even with the excess that any pressure might crack the glass and ruin their--or rather  _ her _ \--chance of getting out truly alive. Ethan considers the vials with similar apprehension. Mia, even if she had survived calcification, would have been too far gone anyway. She’d had it the longest of them all. Marguerite and Jack were beyond saving as well, calcified and torn to shreds from stretching their limits, respectively. 

But Zoe could still be helped. Young enough to fight it, not having given in or pushed the power of regeneration to its ugly maximum. And Ethan himself...exposed, yes, but not truly infected. Two serums is more than enough. He bites his lip in thought. 

“Lucas.” 

Zoe’s upper lip curls in disgust. “Ethan, he’s--” 

“Not gone yet, right? He’s around your age, and. I mean, fuck we’ve got two of them.” 

“We don’t even know where he is, Ethan, that’s crazy talk.” 

“So we’re just gonna leave someone we could save, then? And what, let him continue all this?” 

Zoe’s fingers twitch, fighting against the urge to clench into fists and the need to treat the serum with care. “Lucas ain’t right, Ethan.” 

Admittedly, it does give him pause. The diary entry, the Sewer Gators calling him a ‘bad seed’. Maybe he isn’t...necessarily ‘right’, but. Ethan chews at his lip. Two serums. Is it really his call to make on who deserved saving? 

“I can’t leave someone behind, Zoe. Once we get this all sorted out we never have to see him again, but.” Ethan shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders to express the rest of his sentiment. Zoe studies him for a long moment. Finally, though, she thrusts her left hand to him. 

“I ain’t coming with. You ain’t back in an hour and I’m takin’ off without either of y’all.” 

Ethan takes it with equal parts gratitude and disappointment. Perhaps part of him was expecting to be talked down from it. 

“Where do you think he’ll be?” 

“Somewhere in the barn, he never comes out.” 

With that to go on and a nod, Ethan turns, jogging down the long maze of a dock back to the Baker estate. 

\---

It seems he must’ve come across all the Molded wandering the property, as no more approach him on his run back. The yard with all its thick weeds still makes him cautious, and the halls of Lucas’s...playrooms don’t put Ethan much at ease either. The white tarp is now slick under his scum-covered soles, and crawling under tripwires becomes a much more monumental task. And with no taunting over the PA, or Molded creeping around corners, the place is beginning to feel startlingly empty. At least as startling as anything can be at this point...Again, he reaches Lucas’s booby-trapped door. 081...no, wait, that had been the first one he’d said. It began with a one, didn’t it? Shit. How could he have already for--

_ “Boo!”  _

A hand is over his mouth before he can cry out, and another arm comes quickly around his throat. Instinct kicks in not long after the initial shock. An elbow, both legs kicking backward at the Baker son and eventually one lands--a solid hit to the knee sending the both of them toppling backwards. It’s just barely enough. Ethan flips, syringe in hand and jams the thing against the other’s chest. Lucas grunts, not from the needle so much as the heavy thud of Ethan’s fist knocking the air from his lungs. 

“The hell are you fuckin’--” He gropes for Ethan’s wrist, yanking the fist away from himself before hissing. That stung. That was the sting of a shot. 

“The  _ fuck _ was that!” A kick to the sternum sends Ethan flying to the opposite wall. “ The  _ FUCK _ did you just do, Ethan?” 

Lucas raises his foot again, and Ethan can only lift his arms to shield against the incoming blow to his face. What’s a broken nose, anyway? The next sound, though, is not the sound of his own face getting crushed inward. Instead, there is a series of solid thumps in succession, one with the vibration of something hitting the floor. Ethan dares a peek. Zoe stands over him with a disapproving stare. 

She anticipates his questioning. “Got too worried leavin’ you to deal by yourself. Which I was right to be.” She nods to the body of Lucas Baker, now unconscious on the floor. 

“Yeah, well.” Ethan pushes himself up from the floor. “He wasn’t a fan of getting shot up with serum.” 

“I coulda told you that much.” Zoe crouches down, hooking her arms under Lucas’s shoulders. “Get his feet, would you.” 

Ethan is thoroughly compliant as always. Lifting Lucas, though, is like lifting an unexpectedly empty jar of peanut butter. It gives him a little startle, after which he offers to shoulder the load himself. Zoe nods. 

“I’ll be our cover, then.” Zoe gets the handgun while Ethan shifts to hold Lucas bridal style. Lucas’s head falls back like a limp puppet’s, exposing his already prominent Adam’s apple. They jog the way back to the dock side by side. Ethan eventually begins to cradle the head against his shoulder. It probably doesn’t matter if Lucas gets jostled a bit, but he’s all skin and bones. The angles that poke against that thin, pale epidermis make Ethan nervous something is going to pierce if he’s not careful. By offering to carry Lucas, though, he’s apparently made himself the designated handler. The entire boat ride sees him holding the body in his lap, legs dangling toward Zoe. It gets bumpy on the way out, and then again once they reach the shore. At one point Lucas’s leg bounces out, and Ethan’s got to scramble to pull it back in before a branch can snag it and rip it off--for good, this time. 

Ethan gets to drive, though. Once Lucas is loaded into the backseat, Zoe into the passenger’s side he can start up his little car again. 

“Thought I’d never get to do this again.” 

Zoe can’t help but scoff. “You’re tellin’ me.” 

\---

The drive to Dulvey had been a two-night affair. At first, he had certainly considered it a curse to be so far from the potential of Mia. Now, it holds its pros and cons. He’s certainly excited to see his home again, his bed, his shower. But this limbo distance gives them ample time for thought as to what comes next. It’s going to have to be a new start for the two of them--Zoe and Lucas. New house, new identity, bank account, job. It’s a lot, and they’ll need time to get on their feet. Ethan is happy to extend the kindness to Zoe. 

“We have a guest room you can use until this is. Smoothed over.” 

The idea of anything like this fading into the past is still a little comical at the moment. Zoe’s eyes stray to the rear view mirror. 

“He can have the couch until we get something else figured out.” 

She smiles a little. “He makes the divvy-up decision a lot easier, doesn’t he?” 

“Considering you’re the reason I’m alive, I think it’s already pretty easy.” 

That just makes her roll her eyes.

Lucas wakes up about 20 minutes later. The two of them are made aware of this by the loud shuffle and thumping of him turning himself over in the back, pushing up onto his elbows all bleary-eyed. He’s out of it for a few seconds, trying to understand his surroundings before that confusion turns to panic. Then he’s screaming for another 10 minutes. Profanities, threats, cursing Zoe and Ethan to Hell and back. He makes a lot of fuss, and Zoe isn’t afraid to turn it right back on him. Lucas grabs her hair and yanks, which makes her punch him in the nose. He yelps and pushes back into his seat, holding a nose which is not bleeding, but he yowls about it like it is. It’s a lot of fanfare but not much action, and Ethan knows just as well as Lucas does that there won’t be any. Even with his mold, Lucas didn’t fight, needs it upperhand. He can’t do much without it besides go along for the ride.

Or kill himself. The thought crosses Ethan’s mind once Lucas finally quiets down. Maybe they’d better not leave him alone too much.

\---

There’s a Target not too far from the hotel they finally stop at. It’s 2 AM, and when Ethan insists he can’t go on much longer Zoe capitulates. First, though, they need clothes. Clothes, and more soap than a hotel bathroom will supply. Zoe gets to go in, because Ethan’s caked in blood and dirt and Lucas is.... She comes back with a change for each of them, three big bottles of body wash, and three loofahs. Ethan could weep for joy at just the thought of being clean. Lucas is unenthused. 

Zoe checks in for them, giving them a hand signal to let them know when to sneak to the elevator to meet her. As pissed as Lucas acts, and for all the crying, it surprisingly takes no convincing to get him inside. Maybe a shower doesn’t sound so bad to him either after all. 

Again, Zoe goes first, with Lucas on deck and Ethan going last, ordered for their varying degrees of filth. When she steps out, a warm blast of steam follows her, and she’s grinning ear to ear in her clean pajamas. She’s asleep before Lucas is even in the bathroom after her. He takes a little longer, and once he’s done it’s Ethan’s turn to smile. It’s like looking at a different man. Now that the grime is all gone, Ethan can see the color has returned to his face. His ears glow, red from being scrubbed so good, and Ethan could laugh at the image of Marguerite chidding her son with a Southern drawl to wash behind his ears before supper. Ethan’s shower lasts the longest, and God it’s heavenly. His clothes peel stiffly off his body, and the water washing over him runs black for a long time. The loofah cuts through a dried crust of blood and dirt and sloppy rot plastered to his skin, and his whole body is pink once he’s through. From his scalp to the bottoms of his feet. He’s never felt so clean in his life, and the fresh, soapy smell feels almost alien to him. He brushes his teeth with vigor, and when his spit is grey he brushes three more times after that. Finally, he slips into the new cotton of a grey tee, and PJ shorts. It’s indescribable. Euphoric. He imagines this must be what it feels like to be a newborn baby, all swaddled and fed and rocked by its mother. In their room, Lucas has taken the desk chair to recline in and watch television. Ethan flops into the twin opposite Zoe. It’s stupid to try, but he’s too tired to care so he opens his mouth anyway. 

“Sleep’ll help.” 

It takes Lucas a minute to realize he’s being spoken to. “I ain’t gonna sleep, you two took the beds anyway.” 

Ethan points to the closet. “Comforter in there, roll it up.” As a mattress, is his thought. He hopes Lucas will catch his drift. All he gets is a huff in response. 

“Ain’t fuckin’ sleepin’, go fuck yourself.” 

Ethan wants to put up a fight, but Lord does his bed have other ideas. He falls asleep with his mouth forming words, and no sounds coming out. 

Lucas is still awake the next morning. Or at least, he’s up before Ethan is. Zoe is as well, apparently making herself busy cleaning up to avoid any conversation. Once he’s sat up, Zoe points to him. 

“I’m gonna get rid of the towels, will you throw away our clothes?” 

This is, evidently, the first time she’s voiced her plan, because Lucas’s eyes shoot up from his phone. “Whaddya mean throw ‘em away?” 

“I mean throw them out, Lucas, we can’t be keepin’ any of it.” 

“You ain’t throwin’ my jacket out, I like that jacket.” 

Zoe scoffs and crosses her arms. “Well you ain’t keepin’ it neither, it’s disgusting.” 

“Aw hell, Zoe!” Lucas is standing now, sending the rolly chair he occupied careening into the wall behind him. “Quit acting like you’re the damn boss, it’s my shit and you ain’t throwin’ it out!” 

Zoe responds in turn, raising her voice right back. “Right now I am the damn boss, Lucas! It’s fuckin’ covered in that shit and you been wearin’ it for three years!”

“So you’re gonna take it from me, huh?” He’s screaming now, cheeks flushed pink which looks downright strange on his face. “It’s my jacket! It’s my fuckin’ jacket and I’ll do whatever the hell I want with it, and god dammit, Zoe, I’m keepin’ the god damn thing!” His voice breaks at the end of his sentence with the strain of it, and with finality he brings his fist down on the desk hard. 

Zoe stares at him for a minute with her shoulders in a line and her nostrils flared before whipping around and shoving her own clothing in a bag, slamming the door behind her as she leaves. Lucas stands for a moment too before lifting his hand up and giving it a good shake. There’s a red bloom on the side of his palm. He cradles it, and it dawns on Ethan that pain isn’t something he’s used to anymore. 

Lucas makes himself at home on Zoe’s bed once she’s gone, becomes reabsorbed with whatever it is he’s been doing on his phone since he woke. His brow remains furrowed, along with his nose which is still wrinkled in a slight scowl. Ethan watches for a moment before standing to change. 

\---

Lucas changes too, into the green plaid shirt and fresh khakis Zoe got him. It’s not like he has much of a choice in the matter. For as much as he is apparently upset and hating them, he can’t get caught either. On some vague, undefined level, part of Ethan is worried about what will happen when he’s no longer so beholden to the collective will. But that’s neither here nor there. 

Zoe is intent on driving. Ethan likes his car a lot, and letting a former zombie who’s just taken a dose of mysterious serum drive it might be ill advised. But he trusts her far too much for even any rational concerns, and tosses her the keys over the car’s roof. She seems pleased with him, revving the engine a little before taking off. 

“Daddy always liked his cars,” she glances at Ethan, making sure that he’s listening. Which he is, of course. “Lucas always got to do stuff under the hood with him, ‘n he was always the tinkerin’ type but.” She purses her lips, stifling a smile as best she can before it breaks out, spreading across her face. “I dunno, I always wanted somethin’ nice. A truck, a Harley.” 

That makes him laugh. “I have a friend who’s into motorcycles. Georgia. I uh.” He pauses for a moment at the thought of the story coming to mind. 

“You what?” 

He shakes his head. “Nothing, I just. I was always too scared to ride with her or Mia.” His eyes find Zoe’s and he shrugs. “Just. Sounds silly to say that now I guess.” 

Zoe just shrugs back. “Hell of a thing.” 

Ethan nods. 

\---

His house is a welcome sight. It’s a modest place, especially compared to the Bakers’ estate. But it’s all in one piece, all painted and clean on the inside too. The cleanliness is the biggest relief. To him, to Zoe. When she steps inside she takes a deep, long breath and holds it for a long time before finally letting it go. A giddy laugh escapes her, and when she wipes her eyes Ethan realizes she’s crying. 

“Smells like nothin’.” She sobs out another laugh, takes another breath to try and steady herself. “Christ, it doesn’t smell like anything in here.” 

In the guest room as they arrange it for her stay, she can’t stop running her hands over the walls, feeling the absence of chips and gaps. When Ethan hands her linens, she presses her face into them when he isn’t looking. The smell of rain used to be her favorite smell. Clean laundry easily beats it now. She takes care on her side of the bed as they make it, pulling the corners neat and tight. Ethan follows her lead on the other side, trying his best to match the Marine precision her father showed her when she was a little girl. 

The TV is on in the living room once Ethan emerges. Lucas has made himself at home on the couch, reclining with his feet--still in their shoes--on the arm rest. 

“Uh.” He swallows. His mouth’s gone a little dry. Lucas peers up at him at the sound. “You have a few options as far as the sleeping arrangement goes.” 

“Ooh, lucky me.” He rolls his eyes, swings his feet back to the ground. “Tell me, Ethan, is a bed an option.” 

“Well, I have a--” 

“A room? Can I get a place of my own so I don’t gotta share it with you motherfuckers?” 

Ethan remains silent, raising his eyebrows and putting his hands on his hips like an unamused mother. Lucas gets the point and bites his tongue. 

“I said  _ options _ , I didn’t say free reign. In case you didn’t notice, Zoe has to live with us too.” He pauses again, which is, perhaps, a bit cocky. But Lucas keeps quiet, cedes the floor to him. “So, you can sleep on the couch, or I have an air mattress and we can move some furniture.” 

It takes Lucas a while to decide. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and looks to the ceiling as he does. It takes him long enough that it startles Ethan enough to make him jump when Lucas finally speaks again. 

“Air mattress,” he says, and props his feet back up. Ethan stands there waiting dumbly before realizing he won’t be having the help of this particular Baker. 

Getting the mattress and blowing it up isn’t a particularly huge deal. Really, none of it is. He’ll push the coffee table out of the way, slap some sheets on and call it a day. The way Lucas simply cranes his neck as Ethan works, though. It feels overtly antagonistic, and once the mattress is in place Ethan grabs an armful of sheets, tossing them with as much force as he can muster into Lucas’s face. It makes the Baker son jump and scowl, and that’s good enough for him. 

“You can put those on yourself, I’m going to bed.” 

“Gee thanks. Such a host.” He tosses them to the floor where they plop with a soft, cushiony sound. Ethan is rolling his eyes, halfway out of the room when he stops. He turns slowly as he speaks. 

“Where’s your phone?” 

Lucas doesn’t look away from the television, the new screen he’s got his eyes glued to. “Hm?” 

“Your cell phone, I haven’t seen you on it all day.” 

“Oh, I uh--” he pauses to scratch at his chin. “I went ahead ‘n slid it under our neighbor’s door at the hotel.” 

Ethan blinks a few times. “You. It’s at the hotel, why’d you leave it at the hotel?” 

He shrugs. “Dunno. Don’t wanna get followed anywhere.” Ethan furrows his brow. He’s not that stupid. 

“Well, what about my phone? Should I have left my phone?” 

“Ain’t nobody even know you were there in the first place.” 

“And all the data on yours, what happens when someone finds it?”

At that, he reaches into his pocket and brandishes a black piece of plastic, which must be some important piece in regards to the memory of the phone. It raises more questions than it answers, but by Lucas’s silence Ethan can tell the conversation is over. He takes a deep breath, and lets it out in a sigh. As he’s leaving, he surprises himself. 

“Sleep good, man.” 

It surprises Lucas too. It makes him turn around, prop himself up on his elbow to fix Ethan with a good look, but Winters is already in the other room. 

Ethan doesn’t remember falling asleep. There’s an increasingly hazy series of events: changing, brushing his teeth, all the way up to his head hitting the pillow and as soon as it does, he’s waking up again. Light is streaming in through his blinds, and he can tell by the hue of it it must be around noon. His job is probably worried. He’ll have to make up some story.

As he pads out to the kitchen, he notices he’s not the first one who’s been up, though it seems he is now the only one. A bowl of cereal is still on the kitchen table, the milk a weird purplish color from the Fruit Loops floating in it. The chair is pushed in, though, and he knows it must have been Zoe. She comes out too, not long after the bustle of Ethan in the kitchen making himself coffee and an English muffin. He gives her a smile that shows he’s just woken, and she returns it with a similar one. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you up.” She shakes her head. 

“Was up earlier. Guess I didn’t manage to stay up, huh?” 

He nods to the coffee machine whirring away on the opposite end of the counter. “Could I interest you in some caffeine?” The end of his question catches her in the middle of a yawn so she nods enthusiastically, baring canines that are definitely a bit sharper than usual. 

Lucas sleeps like the dead. Or rather, like the newly undead….Or the un-undead, actually, right? Whatever the fuck he is, he’s zonked out for hours after Zoe and Ethan get their already late start. The siblings look a lot better than they did. The peach of living flesh has returned to their faces, Lucas doesn’t look so clammy, Zoe’s hair--still a mousy brown--is fluffed around her head now that it’s free of grease. But now that the shock of it has worn off, there are still obvious signs. The bags under Lucas’s eyes somehow seem even more prominent. 

“Don’t think he ever got to sleeping much,” is what Zoe says when he asks about it. “Don’t think we really had to if we were infected; I always did. But he embraced it a lot more n’ I did.” She eyes him, looking him up and down for something to comment on. 

“What about you? Seems like you’re holdin’ your own?” 

Ethan takes a long drag from his mug. “I think it hasn’t hit yet...maybe, I dunno.” He risks a glance, hoping to not see pity in her eyes because frankly that’d just make him feel guilty. But she only looks at him, passive eyes almost seeming a little disinterested. It’s a relief. Maybe she gets it. “Mia was...I mean. 3 years goes by and you start getting over it, and I don’t think I was even. To terms with having her back yet.” He sips his coffee again, draining it. “Guess it’s better that way, right?” 

“I think you can die happy with havin’ tried.” She offers to take his mug, placing both in the sink. “If you’re askin’ me if I think feelin’ that way makes you bad, I don’t. You loved her, n you tried to save a life. You got a good heart, so. I wouldn’t sweat however this all makes you feel that much.” She looks up and gives him a lopsided half-smile with unsure eyes. “Don’t think nobody was built to process any of this ‘right’.” Air quotes emphasize her meaning, and he nods along. He does miss Mia. Truly, the emotion is there. But it’s dull. Dull and vague like everything else he feels about the Bakers. Maybe some sadness for Jack and Marguerite, a stronger pride in Zoe, but a weird mix of betrayal and the dull ache of a closing wound is all he can muster for Mia. He did love her, but he’s come to terms with the past tense of it long ago. 

Zoe and Lucas will have to pretend that it never happened. Maybe it’s best if he plays along.

\---

Lucas is up at 3 PM. There’s a loud, crinkly sound from the air mattress shifting beneath his admittedly lacking weight, and then a hacking cough before silence again. It’s quiet for long enough that Ethan eventually peeks into the living room to make sure he’s not spat up an organ or something. Luckily, he’s just sitting up staring at the wall. Not entirely awake, and his eyelids will droop shut for seconds at a time before he jolts and they flutter open again. Ethan waits to be noticed, holding up a hand in greeting when Lucas’s head rolls toward him. 

“Afternoon.” 

Lucas grunts, running his hand through the fuzz of his hair and scratching at the base of his neck. 

“Zoe had coffee, you want me to make you any?”    
“Hate coffee.” 

“...I have juice.” 

Lucas scrunches his nose. “Don’t want no damn juice.” 

Ethan presses his tongue against the back of his teeth. He’s always had a bit of a mouth on him, but maybe now’s not the time. “Well. It’s in the fridge, and there’s. Stuff in the cabinet you can help yourself to.” Lucas’s eyes fall closed as he speaks, and for a second Ethan thinks he’s asleep again. 

“Had a wonderful dream last night, Mr. Winters.” 

“...Oh. Yeah?” 

“Mmmmhm.” Lucas hums like the thought is a delicious meal and opens his eyes again. He no longer holds them as wide and wild as he did, but they’re still scarily pale. “Dreamt about ripping you open. All nice and warm and soft on the inside, I fell right back to sleep in those pretty little guts.” 

If it had come at any other time in his life, Ethan may have called the police. Or kicked him out and invested in a good pistol. For now, though, he just stares for a minute. 

“Right. You can come eat whenever.” 

Lucas looks thoroughly displeased with the response. Ethan goes back to the porch. 

\---   


He has to go to work the next day. Not because anyone is mad, he’s actually been offered some vacation time (These days it pays to be friendly with the boss. To have the kind of job security he has). There’s just appearances that need to be kept up. 

Part of the story he tells them is true; he’d gotten a message to come chase down his wife. In West Virginia, he lies. From a third party--perhaps not so much a lie as an ambiguity. Nothing had come of it (trueish), and he’d called the police when he finally was thinking rationally (the biggest falsehood in the tale). Maybe it’s a little far fetched. Maybe it’s playing the widowed husband card, but he can’t think of a better excuse as to why he up and left. And it’s not a phenomenon entirely unheard of--taunting letters from some insane person with no real connection to the case at hand. Of course, everyone is very worried now and wants to at least see him and talk it out before leaving him to his own devices. Zoe isn’t thrilled about it. 

“I don’t want to be left to babysit him.” 

It makes Ethan wince a little. She’s not wrong, but the thought of leaving Lucas alone in the house doesn’t seem...advisable. Though he still hates to acknowledge the fact that currently, the younger Baker is being held somewhat against his will, and is in a state of questionable stability. 

“I’m not going to be gone all day, I’ll probably be back by lunch.” 

She wrinkles her nose a lot like Lucas. A family trait, perhaps. “...Well.” She crosses her arms. “I want to go out. You can go if you take us to lunch.” She even makes him shake on it, though she herself smiles at the childishness of it. 

“You got a deal,” he promises, and she waves to him from the driveway as he pulls away. 

\---

Lucas has to come with, which Ethan isn’t certain will be easy. Again, though, he has to thank Zoe. The sibling hierarchy has apparently been enforced, and she stands proudly with a dressed and ready-to-go Lucas by the time Ethan’s home. They both know, deep down, that he won’t cause a scene. Can’t, won’t, ever. Lucas is condemned with them if anyone looks into what’s going on, and he’s too concerned with himself to be that vindictive. 

Still, on the surface there’s the anxiety that he might have a change of heart. Get too fed up with being dragged along and say fuck it just to be spiteful. 

He doesn’t. He picks at the naan on the table as Zoe gulps down curry. 

It doesn’t stop the glares, though. Zoe is queen, but when she’s busy reacquainting herself with fresh food, Lucas makes his thoughts clear through his looks. He stares when he chews like it’s some kind of threat. Rips the bread with canines that are sharp like Zoe’s, looks up through his eyelashes. It’s not menacing if it’s intended to be, but at the very least it’s a little unsettling that he’s still so hung up on being cured. Either way, Ethan doesn’t walk in front of Lucas on the way to the car, and he checks his rear view frequently as he drives. 

\---

A knife disappears from the kitchen that night, and it’s incredibly petty. He takes Ethan’s big chef’s knife too, so it’s glaringly obvious. If he’d just taken a paring knife--some small, measly thing Ethan wouldn’t notice--he might’ve gotten away with it. But without any privacy his room is open to search when he’s taking a piss, and Ethan finds it inside his pillow case. 

Ethan sits on the couch with it, waiting for Lucas to come back and rolling the handle side to side in his hand when he reappears, making it glint in the light. Lucas doesn’t seem to care. It’s not a weapon he ever had any intent on using. Just a hollow threat. Ethan knows he’s smarter than that. If there’s one thing Ethan knows Lucas enjoys, though, it’s a little show. Of power, of defiance, of ill will. Lucas plops down on the mattress, and it barely gives. 

“This shit isn’t cute.” 

“But I am, right?” Lucas pulls the sheets around himself, bulking himself up like a defensive animal. 

“If you’re going to kill me, I don’t believe you’d have waited this long.” It scares him to call Lucas’s bluff like that. Ethan wants to keep him in check--at least until his head’s cleared up enough that he can be grateful for being saved. But another part of himself that’s desperately trying to pick apart why Lucas does what he does is worried it’ll set him off. Lucas wants him scared, maybe he’d be content with that. Maybe getting the fear he wants will placat him, not egg him on. 

“If I was going to kill you, I’d take my sweet time.” Lucas turns now, lifting his chin and fixing Ethan with eyes that widen to a semblance of what he’s seen before. “I’d wait until you fell asleep so I could get you tied down and then I’d have my fun. Cut your nose off, gut you like a fish. Keep you alive as long as I could to watch you writhe and make you scream.” He leans forward, crawling closer on all fours until they’re closer than arm’s length. 

“I tell you what, Ethan, I didn’t never eat nobody back home. But I’d make an exception just for you.” 

It’s a risky move, and Ethan knows it. But it’s all he can think to do besides walk away, which is the last thing he wants to do and instead he pulls his fist back hard, really gears it up for a solid hit. 

Lucas flinches. 

It’s the smallest motion. His head pulls back and he draws a quick breath, but there’s immediate horror in his eyes because he knows it wasn’t subtle. Ethan will take the leverage. 

“I don’t understand why you’re acting like this.” 

“What, am I acting a way?” 

“You’re--” he catches himself in the middle of raising his voice. A pause. A sigh. “I just. Didn’t expect you to be upset for this long.” 

Lucas doesn’t afford him the same courtesy of a civil conversation. He leaps to his feet and shouts as hard as his lungs allow. “Didn’t expect me to be upset?! I don’t know what the fuck you and Zoe have been smokin’ but in case you forgot, that shit made you fucking invincible!” 

“You--yeah, and fucking  _ insane _ . You really think you’re gonna miss that?” 

“Of fucking course I do! I had everything and you fuckin’ took it from me!” 

“You were killing people, Lucas, the mold was--” 

“Oh, don’t give me that.” He’s sneering now, nose turned up again with a sick pride. “You think I minded a little mess?” 

Ethan scoffs. “Not in your right mind, I know that shit fucked with your head.”

Lucas falls back onto his knees, hands on his thighs and a smile on his face. He shakes his head and sighs. “It’s a hell of a drug, bud, you never know what you like until you try it.” 

Ethan stands, holding the knife close to his body. They’re stupid, silly threats that are meant to scare him and he knows it. But they work enough that he’s done, shaking his head on his way to the door.

“You sleep good now, Ethan, you hear me?” Lucas calls to his back as he leaves. 

Ethan sleeps with the knife in his nightstand drawer. 

The next morning when he’s having oatmeal, Lucas comes to stand in the middle of the kitchen. Ethan pauses in the middle of his bite. 

“Where’s Zoe?” 

Ethan nods in the direction of the front door. “She’s eating on the porch.” 

Lucas huffs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking unusually upset. “What are you eating?” 

Ethan looks down into his bowl, tips it so Lucas can see. “Oatmeal.” Lucas wrinkles his nose. 

“...Well didja make enough for everyone or what?” 

Ethan’s eyebrows are going up before he can stop them. That’s what’s got him in such a mood--he’s got to ask for food (come to think of it, the only thing Ethan’s seen him eat was naan yesterday). 

“Yeah, there’s enough for another bowl. You want eggs or anything?” 

He quickly realizes it was a mistake to ask, because Lucas isn’t too keen on making any requests. 

“I’m gonna make scrambled eggs too.” He amends, and Lucas seems to be content with that. 

Without his phone to keep himself busy, Lucas has taken to fidgeting a lot. He props himself up against the wall while he waits, and he’ll periodically crack his knuckles and pull loose stitches from his clothing. Ethan tries his best to get a plate into Lucas’s hands quickly so he isn’t looking so mopey and bored. 

Eating seems to be something he’s embarrassed about. Ethan tries not to look, because when he does Lucas stops and just pokes his food around instead. For as much as he doesn’t trust or even like the guy, he doesn’t want him starving to death either. 

“We need to get you a new phone.” He’s talking just to get a conversation started, but it seems like something that might get the Baker’s attention. Lucas looks up. 

“New phone?” 

“Since you don’t have yours anymore, you’ll need a phone.” 

Judging by the way Lucas eyes him, he’s being transparent about what he’s doing. No one can ever say he didn’t try, though. The silence resumes, and Ethan can only listen helplessly to the clatter of the fork on ceramic plate. 

It’s not like he can ask Zoe. If she knew anything, she would have told him already. Passing up the opportunity to challenge the notion that killing is something Lucas is comfortable with was a mistake, and it’s leaving far too many questions than he’s particularly comfortable with. Especially while he’s lending the guy his living room. He’d seen the diary entry, of course. If the handwriting was anything to go by, it was probably written when Lucas was 12. Frankly, it’s a crime he can’t feel very strongly about against Lucas’s favor. Maybe that’s wrong, maybe his moral code isn’t what it used to be. As far as murder goes, it’s the least offensive scenario he can think of. It had, at the time of reading, seemed unlikely Lucas even understood what he’d done, though now Ethan wonders if that judgment call was quite sound. (He’d been aware of something--of the spectacle and process of it all. Of the steady decline in sound, the last, pathetic knocking. The coffin liquor dripping from the ceiling. He’d documented it carefully. Impartially. Like a scientist, in many ways.) 

In any case, Zoe doesn’t trust him and she knows him more than Ethan does, so he errs on the side of caution.

For dinner, they have pizza. He calls to have it delivered, but Zoe yells from the other room that she’ll pick it up. At least one of them is eager to be getting out of the house. When she comes back with her prize in her arms she’s looking giddy like she always does around hot food. She likes black olives on hers, while Lucas and Ethan both take pepperoni. Ethan eats it like her, savoring the stretch of the cheese and being alright with orange grease dripping down their chins. Lucas peels his down layer by layer, eating first the pepperonis, then the cheese, and finally the crust. Methodical. Clinical. Impartially, like a scientist.

\---

The dreams are bad sometimes. Almost all of them take place in the basement of the Baker estate. All dark and wet, smelling like absolute death--like murder. Less like must and more like iron and piss. Instead of bricks, the walls are made of teeth, and they pulse and gnaw when he comes too close. The floor will turn to meat, and the walls will melt, congealing into rotten bodies that tear him apart and eat the rotten flesh inside of him. When his belly splits open it’s full of roaches, and his viscera are black and brown. Ethan’s death smells like turned baby formula and a massacred family. 

He wakes himself up whimpering in his sleep, his mouth too slack to form any real screams. The clock tells him it’s 4 when he wakes, and 4:15 after he tries to get back to sleep. His stomach staunchly refuses to settle, but there’s ginger ale in the fridge which is more than a little tempting. 

Unsurprising is the fact that Lucas is awake still, watching the television in his bed. The strange part is that he’s just showered. Water clings to his hair in a funny way, like dew, and the blanket around his neck is damp from his skin. It smells like Ethan’s good lotion, too, the coconut one he saved for rainy days. 

“Did you get in the cabinet?” 

Lucas turns the volume down on the TV. “Reckon I did, why?” 

“Nothing, just.” He gestures vaguely to Lucas’s person. “I can get you your own if you like that.” 

“No, I just thought you wouldn’t want me to take it.” True to his character, he has no qualms with openly being a nuisance. Petty, but this time it’s at least a little funny. Lucas continues. 

“Why’re you up, huh? Thought I was the nocturnal one.” 

“Stomachache.” 

The honesty makes Lucas scoff. “What’re you, five?” 

Ethan ignores it, goes to the fridge and opens a can with a loud crack and hiss. 

“What’s that?” Ethan looks back into the living room, greeted with a rising Lucas. He can’t help but attribute something sinister to the sight. Lucas still moves strangely, with dangling arms and loose legs. 

“It’s ginger ale.” 

“Do you have any beer?” 

Ethan nods as he sips, stepping aside for Lucas to leer at his selection. It’s pretty sparse, he’d always preferred wine (which his friends make fun of him for, duly). It’s disappointing, apparently, and Lucas kicks the air before taking a Guinness. He still cracks it open with enthusiasm and chugs about half of it in one go before spinning on his heel and wandering back to his living room bachelor pad. Ethan follows suit. Over his shoulder, Lucas casts him a glare. 

“Fuck you followin’ me for?” 

“I’m just coming to watch TV, relax.” 

Lucas narrows his eyes further, but allows Ethan into his own living room regardless. One of those late-night sex and murder crime shows is playing, which Ethan never really enjoyed, but Lucas seems to be pretty caught up in it, and Ethan isn’t too keen on breaking the peace quite yet. Between episodes, during a commercial break he clears his throat. 

“Um.” 

Lucas whips his head around. In the bright blue light of the screen, his eyes are especially strange. His pupils seem to disappear, and the irises fade into the whites. Uniform in color. Ethan swallows with some difficulty. 

“I kind thought I should apologize--” 

Already, he’s got Lucas laughing. “Yeah, let’s go down the fuckin’ list.” 

“I’m being serious, c’mon.” 

Lucas holds his hands up in surrender, beer loosely wedged between three fingers and his palm. He holds it like an expert. “Alright, alright, jeez. I can shut up.” 

Ethan huffs through his nose, feeling a little discouraged after having the mood of the room deflated so precisely. 

“I just. I think we got off to a bad start with the. Curing and I guess, kind of. Kidnapping.” 

Lucas opens his mouth, but a stern look makes him close it again. 

“Look, just. I’m saying that while I don’t  _ get  _ it, I think we’re all having our own. Weird reactions to this, so maybe I shouldn’t be so judgemental. So. I wanted to apologize, I think maybe I’ve been harsh.” Part of him cringes at all the softening ‘maybe’s and ‘guess’s, but it’s hard to be concrete with any of what’s going on. Despite it, Lucas looks fairly shocked. Speechless for a moment, as it turns out. 

“I don’t forgive you,” he says finally. “Don’t think I’m ever gonna forgive you, but I ‘preciate the sentiment I suppose.” He offers his hand. “Least you know you’re a fuckin’ dumbass bitch.” Ethan accepts, shaking it gladly. He’ll take what he can get; an easier truce between the two of them. As they let go of each other, Lucas hardens his expression. 

“Don’t be takin’ any of that the wrong way, I’d fuckin’ kill you if I could.” 

“Why don’t you?” 

Lucas looks at him like he’s stupid. 

“You could,” Ethan knits his brow in defensive incredulity. “I mean, you don’t want what I’m offering, do you? Zoe’s here to get on her feet and have a normal life, but you don’t want that at all. You could kill me and run.” He’s confident he’s not planting any seeds. Lucas is clearly an expert in murder and how to do it well, smarter than the stereotype of his accent. He has reasons. Information. 

Ethan thinks Lucas is smart, but the face Lucas makes tells him the Baker son thinks he’s the dumbest man on the planet. He stands up, shucking off the blanket and lifting his shirt to expose his stomach. He’s scrawny, which Ethan knew from how baggy his clothes are, but it’s still unsettling. His skin is taught around his ribs and flatter than is natural on his stomach. His hip bones are evident at his waistband, and he slaps himself in the gut so Ethan can hear the hollow echo of nothing inside of him. 

“Show me yours.” 

Ethan curls in on himself reflexively. “I’m not lifting my shirt up.” 

“Well, whatcha got, then? Huh?” He reaches out before Ethan can answer, smacking and grabbing at the healthy roll of fat he’s got on his tummy. Ethan shrieks a little, swatting at Lucas’s hands. 

“Get your fucking hands off me!” 

“You probably weigh, what, 160? 170?” He drops his own shirt and it falls around him like a robe. “Punch me.” 

“What?” 

“Punch me right now, punch me in the face, Ethan.” 

Ethan presses himself backwards into the couch defiantly, trying to do the opposite of what he’s been told. “I’m not gonna punch you!” 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t want to hurt you!” 

Lucas Baker snaps his fingers and points, hovering the tip of his finger inches from the tip of Ethan’s nose. “Exactly.” He brings his hand away and falls back onto his ass. “You could beat the damn piss outta me, Ethan. I could try to bump you off, but I don’t do nothin’ without a guarantee.” He sips his beer again, emptying the can. “I’m not a gambling man.” 

\---

Like the inevitability it is, it makes it to the national news. The whole house is a grizzly scene, and the officers who showed up to check on their missing deputy say they’ve never seen something like it, say they got sick when they discovered the basement. The jars of organs. The bodies stewing in plastic bags, softening in their own juices to a jelly-pudding. Jack and Marguerite’s faces are shown first, pronouncing them dead, and all three of them stiffen in anticipation. Zoe’s is next. Police aren’t sure yet what to make of her, and she asks Ethan if he has a razor. An electric one, he says, under the sink. She shaves her head in the upstairs bathroom and borrows a pair of reading glasses to wear. She says she’ll start wearing lipstick too. 

Lucas’s face is the last one they show. They show several photos, several angles, something that must be a mugshot from a previous arrest. They are very interested in where he is. He’s dangerous, they warn, and should not be approached if sighted, which makes Lucas giggle.

He stops laughing when the emails are displayed. The scans of pages of what is now a confession to the murder of his coworkers. Photographs of corners of the salt mines Ethan didn’t know about, of devices with too many sharp edges. Photos of Clancy, of Hoffman. Of many, many people. 

Ethan stares for a long time at the text on the screen. He hadn’t wanted to really believe that Lucas had developed a true taste for all that violence, let alone had somehow been lucid (just a way of rationalizing, right? ‘You never know what you like until you try it’, but he’d never liked it until he’d been forced to, right? Just stress responses. Just some twisted psychology). Lucas himself seems perturbed to have all the minutiae laid out so bare. Maybe he was counting on a little plausible deniability. He looks to Ethan when the reporters finish with all the sordid details. For forgiveness, rejection, whatever is coming his way. Ethan only looks at him. Blank and unsure, which makes Lucas scowl at him. He storms off, cursing Ethan out as he goes for being a stupid bastard, a fucking asshole, a pussy, a bitch, a motherfucker. Ethan doesn’t move from where he stands. 

At the very least, there must be some shame...or maybe it’s fear. With that secret out, Ethan may as well tip off the police, and then it’s over for him. Ethan hopes it’s the former. 

Zoe won’t talk about it, locks herself in her room away from it. Ethan can’t say he doesn’t understand. For as much distaste as she has for him, he’s her brother. 

If he had any sense in his head, he’d kick Lucas out. Call the police with an anonymous tip after dropping Lucas off on the road and wait for the report of his capture to come in. 

But he can’t do it. Maybe he is a bad person after all. Doesn’t give a shit about his dead wife, got some abnormally low emotional capacity and no real morals so he’ll let a murderer live with him. Or maybe he’s too forgiving and wants too badly to do something nice to a man who doesn’t deserve it. 

Judging by the way he slinks around the house the next morning, Lucas will be just as blindsided by Ethan’s attitude as he is himself. When Lucas finally does come into the kitchen he stands there with an expectant look on his face. His nose is turned up, shoulders held in a line. Ethan can almost see the cuss out Lucas is getting ready to give him forming on his lips, ready to go out with a little pride stuck to his hide yet. With his fork, Ethan points to the stove. 

“There’s hash browns in the pan.” 

The prominent Adam's apple in Lucas’s throat bobs as he swallows, nods and turns to help himself. Zoe still doesn’t say anything. They both know she’s not going to be the one to make the call. Perhaps she wanted Ethan to do the dirty work, though. 

\---

Zoe applies to a few jobs in town. At some stores, a gas station. She doesn’t tell Ethan what she did before this, but in the end it doesn’t really matter. They’re starting over again, and even the promise of a highschool degree is a gamble on her resume. Martha is the name she uses on them, Martha Lowery. He plays the old boss in town, and with the promise that the money she earns will help support his new phone fund, Lucas plays another boss from Alabama. The biggest lie he tells on the phone when the Walmart calls wanting to know about her is that he was her boss at all. When he tells them of her dedication, her courage, her drive to help he speaks from his heart. The person on the other end sounds happy with his answers, and she gets it. Of course. Pride wells up in his chest when she lets him know, and she hugs him tight. 

“Sometimes I still can’t believe it’s happenin’...” She gives him a hard squeeze before letting go. “I’d say I owe you, but.” 

That makes him laugh. She knows her place firmly above him in the trichotomy of the household, and she’ll never shy away from it.  _ Never change _ , he thinks, but avoids saying. She’d just roll her eyes. 

“Until I save you from an axe murderer, I think.” 

His thoughts wander to Lucas after he says it. 

\---

It’s about 2 months later that it hits. Long enough that he forgot he was waiting for it; everything has fallen into routine. Still all living together, a new phone for Lucas, Zoe saving for an apartment of her own. Back to his own job, normal as it ever was. His mind must be cleared with the newfound organization of this new life, and now it can flow through him where it couldn’t before. 

He wakes up late after another dream, but the sensations refuse to stop. His body is white hot with the heat of imagined injuries, his whole belly consumed by the fire of being ripped apart. The heat rises, up his throat until he can taste the acid of bile filling his mouth. 

He slips on the tile as he runs into the bathroom down the hall, falling to his knees and gripping the toilet bowl as he empties himself into it. Acid burns in his nose, and his whole body lurches with spasms as his stomach contracts, forcing everything out until sour, clear spittle won’t stop dribbling out of him. Snot and vomit cover his face, and he can hardly breath through the stench and fighting forces of expulsion from his stomach, and harsh breaths his lungs struggle to draw. It’s a ruckus, and Lucas comes in first, standing in the doorway watching Ethan sob into the John. 

“...You okay?” 

He shakes his head vigorously. Zoe is next, pushing past Lucas to pull Ethan away from his own sick. When he’s on his feet, she guides him to the sink so he can rinse and spit while she grabs his toothbrush to clean the taste out. 

Lucas doesn’t help, but he doesn’t leave either. He watches the whole affair from the doorframe, a hand steadying himself against it as Zoe rubs circles on Ethan’s back when he starts crying again, his body wracked with the force of it. She keeps her voice soft, asking yes or no questions for him to shake his head to. No, he doesn’t want to eat. Yes, he feels better now. Yes, it’s about that. 

She leaves him be when he can breathe normally again, giving him one last pat and a “Stay home tomorrow, sleep in”. Protest is quick in his mind, but when he returns to sniveling at her absence, he’s not as keen. He wipes his nose, blows it hard and flushes his mess. Lucas is still at the door, but he steps aside when Ethan moves to leave. 

“You okay?” he asks again. Ethan nods and sniffs. 

“...You sure?” 

“Mhmm.” It’s not convincing at all. His voice wobbles even with just a hum, and Lucas rolls his eyes. 

“You ain’t gonna sleep good if you try.” 

Ethan just shrugs. Lucas nods behind them, to ‘his’ ‘room’. “You should have a drink.” 

Alcohol is about the last thing he thinks he could stomach right now, but the TV in Lucas’s little cave sounds like a welcome distraction, so he accepts. When Lucas hands him a beer once he’s seated on the couch, he declines. Lucas cracks it open and takes a swig for himself. He doesn’t press for anything, and for a long time they sit in silence watching Jerry Springer and Judge Judy. It helps, he has to admit. Garbage TV could probably make him feel good any day. Good enough now, even, that he turns to the man to his left. 

“This is pretty unusual behavior.” 

“Hm?” 

“You’re just being really nice to me.” 

It’s intended to be a good ribbing, and it proves effective as Lucas scrunches his face up, turning away quickly. 

“Well shit, I don’t know what you want me to be doin’ otherwise.” 

“I didn’t say it was bad, it’s just funny.” 

Lucas’s voice pitches up to almost a whine. “Ethan, you’ve got me livin’ in your damn house and you know I killed a good amount of people. I’m in no god damn position to be anything but cordial.” 

“Killed people and tried to kill me, let’s keep that clear.” 

That gets Lucas smiling. “Oh, don’t I know it.” He sighs, leaning back and propping his feet up. “It coulda been a great party, Ethan.” 

“Yes, I’m sure great is the world Oliver and Clancy would be using.” 

The smile is gone as quick as it came. “Don’t be ruining the night tossin’ around names like that.” 

Ethan shoots him a concerned look as a half-apology. “Clancy or Oliver?” 

“Oliver.” 

“You don’t like talking about him?” 

Lucas fixes him with wide, amazed eyes. “Ethan...have you ever taken an IQ test, because you must be in the 200s.” Ethan rolls his eyes. 

“I’m just asking, what happened to cordial.” 

He shrugs. “Sorry, you just make it easy.” He fiddles with the pop tab on his beer, pulling and pressing it back and forth until the metal snaps. “Stupid son of a bitch.” 

“You said he bullied you. In your journal.” 

Lucas nods, fingers finding some loose thread in the stitching of his new jeans and pulling it out. “Somethin’ like that, yeah.” 

“...How bad did it get?” 

He shrugs again. “Just kid shit. Punchin’, kickin’, namecallin’.” The look on his face is distant. “Oliver wasn’t the only one, but I tell you what: shit got real quiet after I took care of it.” 

Ethan just nods like it makes all the sense in the world. 

“‘M sorry…” 

“You’re sorry?” 

Ethan nods, turning to face Lucas’s eyes and send it home. “Sorry that it happened, yeah. No one deserves to get treated like that.” 

That just makes him laugh and shake his head. “Ethan, you are a pansy if I ever seen one.” Ethan just smiles back, looking back to the television’s blue glow. Five minutes later, he thinks better of it, turns back to assert his point at least once, but Lucas is already gone. Head leaning off the back of the couch, mouth hanging open and showing his too-sharp teeth. Ethan pulls a blanket over him before heading back to his own bed. 

\---

Zoe has work the next day, and Ethan takes her advice. Work is still being incredibly lenient with him over the freshly opened wound, and he’s grateful as all hell for it because when he wakes up he still feels drained. It’s another few hours after he initially wakes up, fading in and out, rolling to the cool side of the bed and flipping his pillow over until he’s really ready. The fact that Lucas is up when he finally comes out tells him it must be real bad. The Baker son sits at the kitchen table tapping away on his phone (no longer to The Connections, which Lucas celebrates, and Ethan and Zoe double check. He still uses the same passcode: 1019, his birthday). Ethan’s voice croaks when he speaks. 

“Hey.” 

Lucas tips his head up just enough for a glance. “Well good mornin’ sleeping beauty.” 

“Time is it?” 

“Mm. 1:30.” 

“Damn.” Ethan ruffles up the unbrushed hair sticking to his forehead. He needs to shower again, he’s all tacky with dried sweat. 

“Zoe says we need milk.” Sentences like that always get a laugh out of Ethan. The voice of Lucas, one that he’s heard threaten to disembowel, tease and taunt and prod Ethan into what was intended to be his death. Sinister Lucas coming at him with a little nag over what groceries need to get bought. 

“You can drive, can’t you?” 

“Wakin’ up to me being gone doesn’t scare you?” 

He’ll concede that point. Zoe’s right about the milk, though, and it seems like they’re running low on junk food (Lucas burns through Cheetos like a woodchipper). “Guess I’m going to the store.” 

The chair Lucas is perched on creaks when he shifts his weight, turning around in it. “Right now?” 

“Soon probably, yeah.” 

Again it creaks, now as the pressure is lifting off it and Lucas stands. “Can you wait five minutes?” 

Ethan blinks a few times. “What, you’re coming with?” 

Lucas shrugs. “Been a few months since I last been out.” Which it has; not since they started this whole ordeal. Partly from a safety standpoint, he’s the one who’s wanted out of the two remaining Bakers. Partly from Lucas being who he is in general. To say the least, it’s an odd change. 

“Um. Yeah, I mean, I need to get ready but you can come.” 

Lucas slaps the counter with finality. “See you in five then.” 

Ethan takes his shower, taking extra care to scrub himself down and wash away last night’s cold sweats. That along with a nice set of clean clothes has him feeling like a person again, and he’s vaguely aware of a stupid smile on his face as he exits the room. 

Keys smack him in the chest as soon as he opens the door. He fumbles, trying to catch them and failing before they clatter to the ground. 

“I said five, takin’ you damn near an hour to get ready.” Ethan bends to pick them up. 

“Christ, Lucas, it’s been 10 minutes.” He pockets them, leading the way to the garage with Lucas in tow. 

“You always get this gussied up for the store?” 

“I’m not gussied.” 

Lucas laughs at him. “You’re in your damn loafers, doncha own some tennis shoes or somethin’?” As for himself, Lucas is in sweats and a hoodie. Zoe and Ethan did the wardrobe reestablishment, and Ethan had tried to buy more...Presentable outfits, like the first plaid shirt. But Zoe’d dug her heels in, shaking her head (“He says if we put him in somethin’ like that he’s going to start stayin’ naked.” Ethan had hung the polo back up). 

“I just like to look nice.” He turns to Lucas, now walking besides him, bent slightly at the back so they’re eye level. “You should wear that button-up Zoe got you,  _ that _ looks nice.” 

Lucas grins wide, flashing his teeth. They’ve brightened up now that he’s brushing and flossing again, and both he and Zoe look downright carnivorous when they smile. “You tryin’ to tell me I’m handsome, Ethan? Mama always told me I was looker.” 

“I’m saying if you wore stuff that fit you, yes, you’d look pretty good.” 

Lucas never expects to have any of his taunts turned on their head, no matter how many times Ethan does it, and it always shuts him up. Gets him too flustered and embarrassed to snark off anymore. Ethan’s gotten pretty good at it. 

The midday parking lot is, thankfully, fairly empty. Still, Ethan hands Lucas a pair of sunglasses. Lucas refuses to change his hair, though Ethan figures his nose and eyes are his most distinct features. That and the accent, of course. But if he can cover one up, it’s better than nothing, and Lucas doesn’t mind wearing them. They stay close mostly, Lucas following Ethan around the aisles, occasionally knocking something he wants into the cart (chips, soda, beer, mostly). If Lucas acts like a child, today he’s decided to be a well behaved one. 

Complacency ends up being his error. Ethan’s checking the dates on milk, and when he looks up to put it with the other groceries, Lucas is gone. It shouldn’t make him panic. If Lucas was going to run away, surely he would have done it in the night months ago. Gotten a good head start on anyone who might come looking for him. And even if he is running, that’s his prerogative. They have their truce, Ethan himself is in no danger. It shouldn’t make him panic, but in just a minute he finds himself practically running down the lanes, shooting past aisles and whipping his head side to side. He gives himself a stitch in his side and has to skid to a halt, clutching himself, half keeled over against his cart. The stitch is quickly replaced with a near heart-attack when Lucas taps him on the shoulder. 

“ _ Fuck! _ ” 

It’s Lucas’s turn to jump now, and Ethan can only assume his eyes have gone wide behind his dark lenses. “Shit, calm down before you piss yourself.” 

“Fucking Christ, Lucas, don’t--don’t fucking. Run off like that.  _ Christ. _ ” 

As he’s swearing, catching his breath and giving Lucas his sternest, angriest look, Lucas empties an armful of crap into the cart. 

“There a RadioShack near here?” 

“ _ What _ ?” 

“RadioShack. Or somethin’ like it.” 

Ethan looks at the pile of goodies Lucas has dumped on top of everything else. Batteries, a wide assortment of cables, a few metal pieces he seems to have picked up from around the store with a variety of intended purposes, though God knows what’s in store for them now. 

“...You’re building something?” 

“Depends on if you get me to a RadioShack.” 

“Depends on what you’re building.” He picks up one of the packs of batteries. They’re D’s, which doesn’t sit right in his stomach. Petulant as ever, Lucas huffs and crosses his arms. 

“I don’t fuckin’ know yet, whatever I feel like.” 

Ethan keeps his head down, studying the package. It’s bombs he’s worried about. They seem to be Lucas’s particular passion; his forte, and very much not Ethan’s. An engineer he is, yes, but software is a far cry from electrical. Another exercise in trust. Trust that Lucas will not buy parts under his nose, and the implicit expectation of privacy from Ethan. Lucas had been getting finicky about that, his lack of walls and being placed in what is the hub of the house wearing his patience thinner by the minute. 

Trust, Ethan decides, is something worth a little gamble. He waits near the front of the RadioShack as Lucas goes about his hunt, piling his arms high with spools of wire, resistors and capacitors, a soldering iron kit. He mumbles to himself as he goes, cooing and sighing over whatever it is he’s thinking. He waves Ethan over when he’s done, presenting a healthy pile to the cashier. Ethan swipes his card with closed eyes. 

Zoe wrinkles her nose when she comes home. Ethan opened the windows an hour ago to let out the stench of burnt plastic. Some good it’s done. 

“What on Earth has got it smellin’ like that?” 

“Lucas.” 

Her shoulders fall. Upset and disappointed, but it’s at least in a comical ‘you’ve got to be fucking kidding me’ way. She drops her bag at the front door, and when she enters the living her whine of ‘oh no’ is audible. They have no idea what exactly it is that he’s making (not a bomb, clearly, thank  _ god _ ), and Lucas happily shows him a crumpled piece of paper with what Ethan is at least able to identify as a circuit on it. He knows his basics, certainly, but there are way too many branches and bits and bobs on it for him to understand what exactly is happening. It’s fitting, in a way. A chaotic, fucked up circuit coming from a chaotic, fucked up dude. Ethan passes the paper back to him. 

“What college did you go to?” He finds himself asking. Pride glints in Lucas’s eyes, and his nose points up in his now signature way. 

“Didn’t. Taught myself.” He grabs a pair of needle nose pliers, twists two ends of wire together with a grunt. “Well. Some from the robotics club back when, some from books. Some off the internet, whatever. It ain’t that hard.” He seals the deal with a good wrap of electrical tape. Distantly, Ethan wonders if that’s safe practice. 

That night ends up being somewhat of a household TV marathon night. They’ve all found a place on the couch (or for Lucas, in his own bed), and halfway through another episode of Lucas’s murder mystery shows Zoe yawns in a way that reminds Ethan of a cat (showing of sharp teeth, stretching out as far as she can strain herself). She’s the first to tap out.

“Alright, boys, I’m callin’ it.” 

Lucas boos, and Ethan pouts up at her. “It’s not even late, you’re leaving?” 

“It’s past midnight, Ethan, I got work.” He makes a big show of looking at the clock, almost certain that it’s only 9. 12:30 blinks at him instead. 

“Clock must be fast.” 

“Ha ha,” Zoe says without laughing. She pushes herself up from the couch, scratching at the fuzz of hair on her head. She’d come to really enjoy the new style, buzzed it again just the other day. “You boys get yourselves to bed, alright? And keep it quiet, if I get woken up I’m beatin’ ass.” 

“Love you too, Zoe.” Lucas calls as she leaves, blowing a kiss for good measure. Over her shoulder, she casts a quick flip of the bird. 

Ethan stays lounged on the couch, hoping to pass a little more time until sleep feels within reach. When he checks the clock again, it’s almost 3 AM, and he groans. 

“I slept way too late today, my schedule’s gonna be fucked.” 

“Join the club, bud. We rage ‘til dawn.” Lucas tips a beer bottle his way. Ethan gives a courteous clink with his water glass. 

Minutes become meaningless, time a haze with the endless stream from the TV, and Ethan almost doesn’t notice when he begins to cry again. There’s no reason for it--for the onset, at least, that he can discern. Maybe the night just feels lonely, maybe the smell of beer reminds him of those first nights after Mia had vanished. He’d been so hopeless then, so inconsolable. Part of him finally feels free. It’s closure, as fucked up as the whole situation is. But knowing that he’d been moving on while she was alive still hurts, though, and the piece of him that knows this is a second loss can’t stop scolding him for being even a little relieved. Guilt has become a constant pain, like that of hunger, along with the lifted weight closure brings.

He loved Mia. He really, really did. He will, always, if not exactly in the way that made him marry her. 

Snot makes it hard to breathe, and his sniffling makes Lucas turn around. 

Lucas didn’t like seeing Ethan cry. Ethan has such a boyish face, it looks too natural on him. Jocks had always been the most fun to break; crying made them look fucked up and strange. Some foreign display on their faces, looking like monsters. Ethan just looks sad. Glum in a really heart-breaking way. The TV’s blue light makes his cheek shine where he’s let tears streak down, and his jaw clenches when he sees Lucas staring. He twists his mouth into a crooked line. 

“What?” 

“Was gonna ask you that.” 

Ethan huffs, dragging his shirt sleeve across his face and provoking the burn of friction. “Just shit.” 

“You been cryin’ a lot.” Lucas pauses. “Well, I seen it twice, but. I ain’t seen you cryin’ before so uhm--. Comparatively, y’know.” 

Ethan turns his hands up with a shrug and keeps his eyes on his lap. “Just--” He stops, takes a long breath to try and steady himself. If he’s not careful he’s just gonna turn into a damn mess. “Just thinking about it, I guess--” He’s rushing his words together to get through it. Not fast enough, though. His breath hitches and he slaps a hand over his mouth because he can feel it ripping his throat apart, and he doesn’t want to wake Zoe up again. Sobs make his body convulse. Every muscle in him is taught; he feels like if he moves the wrong way he’ll snap like a guitar string. It’s so easy to get lost in it--the helplessness, confined to his own body which is so easily ruined. When the couch dips under weight beside him, he can’t resist gulping up the distraction. He grabs on like--because--his life depends on it. Soft cloth bunched in his hands, something bristly on the top of his head. Lucas Baker doesn’t look like he gives good hugs. Looks too bony to be comfortable, but damn if this doesn’t feel like the best hug he’s ever had. 

Lucas doesn’t really hug back. He puts an arm around Ethan after being gripped for a few minutes, rests his head upon Ethan’s. He can feel his collar bone pressing into some squishy part of the other man in his arms, and it makes him want to pull away. But Ethan clings to him until his body’s twitching and spasms turn to deep, languid motions of steady breathing. When he does finally let go, his eyes are puffy and his cheeks are ruddy. 

“Sorry.” 

“‘S fine, bud, c’mon.” Lucas gives him a good slap on the back like his father and his marine buddies. 

A few more sniffles are needed before he’s feeling back to normal. Lucas sits by him the whole time with his hands in his lap, mostly just staring. 

Crying was what he needed, apparently, because he’s fucking exhausted by the end. Blue eyes meet his when he looks to Lucas to excuse himself. Still staring. His whole face is kind of bright pink. 

“Sorry,” he says again, with a lot more energy behind it this time. Of course Lucas isn’t the type to want to touch, be touched. A real, genuine apology is climbing up his throat, but at the same time Lucas probably isn’t the type for that either. “I’ll get outta here, just needed to. Get that out, I guess.” 

Lucas just nods and rocks his weight so he can tuck his hands under his thighs. Ethan leaves him to his television. 


	2. Chapter 2

Zoe comes home from work grinning ear to ear, bouncing on her feet into the kitchen and hopping up onto the counter. 

“Think I met a friend of yours today.” 

“Hm?” Ethan looks up from the cutting board, looking as disinterested as he can (it ends up being some comical, parody of an expression. He cares way too much about her to make it seem real). She punches him in the shoulder hard. 

“Met Georgia. She rode her bike ‘n she was decked in her gear when she came in.” 

“Oh, yeah!” He leans forward, eager for the details. “You say anything?” 

She shakes her head. “Naw, just told her I liked her Harley.” She crosses her arms now, giving Ethan a devious smile. “Didn’t tell me she was so good lookin’.” 

“Well I don’t know your type.” He goes back to his bell peppers, cutting even little strips. Zoe laughs. 

“Lemme tell you right now, then, she is definitely my type.” A beat. And then, in a hushed voice she drops her typical hauty air. It’s brief, but Ethan’s heart melts just the same. “Told me she liked my hair.” 

He smiles at her. Really smiles, bright and big and with his eyes too. “I can give you her number.” 

“No, no way.” She hops down again, cutting across the air with her hand to put the kibosh on Ethan’s proposal. “This is my game, I gotta earn it...And that might be weird.” She stops for a moment. “Is it weird?” 

Ethan laughs at her, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know, Zoe. Maybe she’d be flattered.” 

Zoe stays put for a while considering it, hands on her hips and eyes on the floor with her brows knit together. 

“Naw,” she says again. “I gotta earn it.” On her way out, she swats at his butt and he swats the back of her hand right back. 

Two days later, Georgia hasn’t come back, and Zoe caves. She comes to him all sheepish and blushing like Ethan’s never seen anyone blush before. The actual text takes 20 minutes to write and another hour to send. She types it, deletes, types it again and has him proofread it. It’s some long, overly apologetic thing, but it comes off as really sweet and sincere, and he tries his best to hype her up. Ten times she gets close, but chickens out at the last minute, groaning and stomping her feet and taking a walk around the house to settle down. The eleventh time, she hands it over to Ethan to send. She won’t take the phone back once he does, refuses to look at the thing. Absolutely mortified, but in a really cute and charming way. Commotion draws Lucas out of his haven. In the plaid shirt, Ethan notes.

“What’re we yellin’ about?”

“Nothin’,” Zoe spits.

“Zoe’s texting a girl.” Ethan says at the same time. Lucas’s eyebrows shoot up, and Zoe’s voice turns to a shriek.

“ _ Ethan! _ ”

“You’re  _ textin’ _ a  _ girl _ ?”

“Ugh!” Zoe turns to glare at Ethan. He’s well aware of what he’s done, and only smiles. She looks back at Lucas.

His grin is perverse and wirey. “Is she hot?”

Zoe scoffs. “You’re the last fuckin’ person I’m gonna be tellin’ about a girl.”

“Big jugs?”

You are a  _ pig! _ ” She jolts up from her chair, rearing a fist back and Lucas stumbles backward out of the room with a yelp. Ethan won’t hit him, but Zoe will have no qualms about socking him right in the nose. 

Georgia doesn’t disappear from their lives. She texts back, which Ethan is very promptly notified of. 

_ omg dont be nervous!! youre really cute, i cant believe you asked ethan about me _

_ i just don’t want to be imposing or anything, haha / so. I guess while i’m layin my cards on the table i should say that like if you’re interested i think youre really cute too and i was just wondering if maybe you wanna meet up again some time  _

_ like a date?  _

_ yeah is that okay?  _

_ um, duh! / was i not flirting hard enough in the store ;-P ?  _

Their first date, Zoe decides, will be a lunch date. It’s a very calculated thought. 

“No movie date on the first date, we gotta get to know each other better first. The movie date should be our third date, because then we’ll know each other good enough to kiss, and it’ll be all romantic and shit in the dark, right?” She lays it all out to Ethan like it’s a battle plan, and he smiles and nods along. 

“You don’t think it’s cliche?” she crosses her arms and fixes her lips into something dangerously close to a pout. 

“No, not at all! Not in a bad way, I mean. It’s like. Trope-y, but I think that’s kinda sweet and romantic in its own way. Like a very classic, cutesy thing.” 

She gives a curt nod, a smile now breaking across her sulky expression. “Yeah, and then maybe we can get a rootbeer float at the malt shop, right?” 

\---

Zoe’s on her movie date, and Ethan’s eating a PB&J when Lucas comes to him again.

“You know how to code?” 

“Hm?” Ethan looks up and swallows a thick wad of peanut butter with a cough. 

“You’re a system engineer, they teach you how to code when you’re a system engineer?” 

“Uh.” Another cough. “Yeah, for sure. I’ve got some software work under my belt.” 

“I wanna code.” 

Ethan furrows his brow. “You want to code.” 

Lucas comes to the table, pulls a chair around so they can sit side by side and plunks his chunky laptop on the table. “I want you to tell me how you do it.” 

Ethan regards him with skepticism. “What happened to being self taught?” 

“If you don’t wanna fuckin’ do it just say no and I can fuck off.” 

“No, no I.” He lays a tentative hand on the computer, which Lucas seems to allow. “I’d. I’ll show you how to get started.” He opens the lid up and types 1019 reflexively. Lucas frowns at him. 

“Who told you that?” 

“Zoe. Sorry.” 

He mouses over the Firefox icon and begins his work before Lucas has time to get any more pissed. 

“So you’ll need a text editor. Notepad++ is good for beginners--” 

“What’s a hard one?” 

“Huh?” 

“Like that one’s beginner level.” He gestures to the chameleon icon. “What do you use?” 

“Well, I use Sublime because it’s an employee license, but Vim is a lot more robust. But it’s--”

“I wanna see Vim.” 

“I was  _ saying _ ,” Ethan fixes him with a stern look. “Vim has a learning curve, we should start with some Java or Python in Notepad, and then once you kinda know what you’re doing, you can do whatever you want.” 

“Well if I’m gonna use Vim, why don’t I just start with it?” He goes to grab the laptop away, but Ethan grips onto it tighter, yanks it toward himself. 

“You asked me for help, I’m trying to show you how to do it!” 

“Well I changed my damn mind!” He tightens his own grip and tugs as hard as he can, but it barely budges. “Fuckin’ give me my shit, man!” 

“Lucas, I  _ want  _ you to learn to code, but you’re not  _ listening _ to me!” 

“I don’t need your fuckin’ help you motherfucker, so SHUT UP!” He kicks with a bare foot at Ethan’s chair, which sends both of them toppling, Ethan to the left and Lucas to right, onto his back, laptop clutched against his chest. 

“Shit--” Ethan groans, pushing back up onto his knees. Lucas stays where he is, chest heaving and squeezing his computer closer to himself. Ethan gets to his feet. 

“Lucas, are--” 

“Can you just  _ fuck off _ , Ethan, Jesus Christ.” He rolls onto his side, curling in on himself with his voice uncharacteristically shrill. 

“...Are you okay?” His own voice comes out small, soft with concern. He begins to extend a hand. 

“Leave me alone, _ fuck! _ ” Lucas screams out at the top of his lungs, tendons becoming prominent in his neck as he pushes his body to its limit. Ethan takes a step back in spite of himself. Observes, for a moment, the quivering flesh on his floor. Its stomach jumps, sucking in breaths, and it further conceals its face. Ethan’s never seen Lucas cry yet. Zoe didn’t like to, battle hardened as she is, but being who they are it’s a difficult function to avoid. But Lucas has. Of course he has. All power, all persona, crying isn’t on brand so it’s decidedly odd. Gut-wrenching in a particularly awful way. 

Lucas doesn’t make any sobbing noises. Lucas lays there and gasps instead, sucking down air and coughing it up again so it really looks like he’s suffocating. Dying on Ethan’s dining room floor. 

Ethan stays there, sitting down with Lucas, close enough that his presence must be known in that sixth sense sort of way everyone has. For anyone else, Ethan would extend a hand. A touch on the shoulder, the knee, a comforting warmth of skin on theirs to help. For Lucas, he’s not as sure as he could be. Loose canon Lucas. Tenderness seems about the last thing he’d want. 

The crying stops a while before he sits up again. Even breaths, sniffles, all with his face still buried in the carpet. It takes Ethan too long to understand he’s embarrassed. 

“Hey,” he offers when he finally does get it, risking a touch on the arm. “C’mon, let’s move this off the floor.” 

Lucas rolls onto his back semi-defiantly, casting his gaze Ethan’s way. The whites of his eyes have gone pink, and it’s in jarring contrast to his still way-too-pale-blue irises. 

“...Your foot okay?” Ethan nods down to the piece of him in question. He can tell by looking at it that it’s not okay, it’s puffed up a bit and turned red on the sole. Probably a bruise in the making, which makes him want to wince. 

Lucas shrugs. “Ain’t used to this shit stickin’ around.” 

“Forgot how to be careful?” 

“I hate bein’ careful.” He pushes himself upright, and, much to Ethan’s surprise, rights the chair as well. 

“Thanks,” he makes sure to say. Lucas limps past him with a wave of the hand. 

“...I have ice packs in the freezer, your foot’s pretty busted.” 

“Not a fuckin’ pussy, Ethan.” 

Five minutes later, Ethan hears the distinct, suction-y pop of the freezer door opening. 

\---

Ethan sits with him for a long time that night. Partly to steward over him (bringing a Pepsi, Spaghettios that he insists be left cold, another Pepsi) while he keeps his foot on ice, partly as... Maybe a friend. Again, with Lucas it’s hard to be sure, but it feels something like that. There’s concern, at the very least. Because yeah, a fucked up foot probably hurts like a bitch, but it’s another one of his little outbursts. Straw that broke the camel’s back type stuff, pent up stuff. Like sticking a pin in a balloon, it can’t just leak out. He won’t prod, but he’ll be there if Lucas decides to indulge him. It comes in an unexpected way. 

“I didn’t know Zoe liked girls.” 

Ethan’s head snaps up, hand retroactively going to cover his mouth. “Oh, shit, she wasn’t--she acted really open about it, I thought--” 

Lucas swings his hand around to shush him. “She don’t give a shit, I just didn’t know.” 

“Still, I guess I should have asked.” Ethan can feel his cheeks reddening with a little bit of shame. 

“She tell you off?” 

“...No.” 

“Well there ya go.” He sips on his Pepsi. 

Ethan shifts a little on the couch. “Well I feel stupid now, it really seemed like she was. Out and open with it…” White hot defense coils in his stomach suddenly at the very unwelcome thought of--”You’re cool, right?” 

Lucas looks mildly offended. “‘Course I’m fuckin’ fine with it, damn, Ethan.” He sips his Pepsi. “Not a backwards bumpkin.” 

He suppresses an eyeroll at that, though it is nice to hear Lucas isn’t 100% terrible. It does little to assuage the molten feeling in his gut, though. 

“...What about your parents? She isn’t keeping it a secret now, was it. Not safe at home or something?” 

Much to his dismay, Lucas shrugs again. “They were old people. Ma really wanted Zoe to pop out some kids someday and make her a grandma.” He finishes the can off, regards the shine of the aluminum. “Old man was a marine boy, so.” He collapses it in his fist. “He ain’t raise no damn queers, that’s for sure.” 

It sounds too much like a quote for Ethan’s comfort. 

“Sorry…” 

“What, for my daddy?” Lucas props his head in his hand, eyeing Ethan with his regular distaste. “You ain’t got nothin’ to do with that, don’t be apologizin’.” 

“...What about you?” 

“Hm.” 

“Are you gay?” 

Lucas rears his head back and wrinkles his nose. “ _ No _ , I’m not fuckin’ gay, damn.” He drops the can and presses it flat under his good foot. “Nothin’ wrong with it, but I ain’t into any dudes, okay?” 

Ethan shrugs. “Just a question.” 

“Well, I ain’t gay.” 

“I know.” 

Lucas kicks the mess of aluminum to his working corner. “...Are you?” 

“I like guys too, yeah.” 

Lucas just nods, which is a little surprising. “Okay.” 

“...You want another Pepsi?” 

“Mhmm.” 

\---

“I ain’t comin’ to look at it, I ain’t stupid!” Zoe pushes back on her bedroom door, but Lucas jams his foot in to keep it propped open. “You’re gonna break the hinges, dumbass!” 

“If you want your door outta this alive, you’ll come look.” 

She gives the door a good bang with her shoulder, smashing his toes and making him yelp like a hurt dog. He jumps back enough for her to slam it all the way shut, leaving him to bang his fists on the door in vain. 

“Zoe! Open up, dammit, I made it for you!” Lucas pounds at the door a few more times, earning only the reward of a pair of tender, bruised hands. He turns his back to it, thumping his weight against the door one last time before sliding to the ground. Business had seen Ethan out of town that week. Of all the weeks it could have been, it was the one where he’d finally finished his first coding project. He’d wanted to show it off to the guy, though it was made for Zoe. 

Removing Ethan from the equation showed a lot about the home’s dynamic. Mostly that he and his sister can’t get along without Ethan’s calming, third party presence. No one eats breakfast together without him, and they’ve gotten locked in a stalemate over the dishes and whose turn it is to clean them, so now neither will do it and it’s starting to smell. Lucas smacks the back of his head against the wood. 

“Bitch.” 

She kicks the door, and it makes him jump. “Bitch.” 

Of all the weeks. Any week at all would have been hell. It’s not like he travels a lot for his job, Lucas knows he’s a desk jockey just from the way he fights (not a runner, but a good amount of strength probably from lifting weights at the gym). But apparently something in Idaho is so very fucking important, and it’s four more days until he’ll be back. It’s bullshit is what it is. When he announced he’d be leaving, Lucas made sure to give him a good cussing, and he’ll probably give another when the little bitch shows his face again. 

Lucas doesn’t miss Ethan, of course. He likes his privacy, and Zoe is more than happy to give it to him. Ethan is the one who likes to eat in the kitchen, sit out where the traffic of the house passes through because he enjoys it. No, Lucas is happy for the quiet Ethan leaves for him to fill up himself, but--. But. 

But what, he doesn’t exactly know yet. Whatever it is, it makes him feel jittery and has him walking the halls and finishing his little invention days in advance of what he’d been set for. Sometimes he remembers what Ethan looked like on the bathroom floor for no reason in particular, so maybe it’s concern. He hopes there’s someone in Idaho to craddle his stupid, baby ass if he starts with that again.

“Zoe,” he raps on the door with sharp knuckles. “C’mon out, Zoe!” 

“I ain’t comin’ out!” Her voice has a low muffled tone, and Lucas can tell she must be across the room now. He jiggles the handle in a routine motion, but of course it’s locked. 

“I promise I’ll stop if you just look, dammit, Zo’. You think Ethan’d let me program a bomb?” 

“I thought you weren’t letting him help.” 

“No, but he would look at it.” 

There’s a pause, then a click and the door creaks open enough for her to look at him through. “Move.” 

He steps aside, bowing deeply and gesturing her forward with a wave of his arm. She treads cautiously, eyes on him for a lot longer than is necessary. Lucas sticks his tongue out as she turns. 

In the living room, he’s pushed the coffee table Ethan moved for his bed into the corner with an outlet. It’s mostly disorganized, but he’s cleared out a little space for the thing to rest. As Zoe approaches it, she recognizes it as a hand--or a glove, actually. A series of wires run out of it, plugged into the laptop and black box behind it. Metal pieces protrude from its opening as well, presumably a byproduct of whatever mechanism is hidden inside. There’s something in the center of the palm. 

“What is it?” 

Lucas gets down to his knees, hunching over his computer and tapping away at something. “It’s your surprise.” 

She keeps her face away from whatever the thing is (flamethrower, lazer, some targeted shrapnel device?). “It does something?” 

“Well you gotta look at it, damn.” He grabs the glove--device--by the metal like a handle and holds it up to her face like a handheld mirror. “It don’t bite.” 

It might, and she can’t help but jerk her head back from it a little bit. Whatever it is, it seems to have gotten what it wanted because it twitches in Lucas’s hand. At the wrist first, then the fingers begin to bend. The thumb, the pinky, the index and the ring until only the middle still stands proud. Zoe’s tensed shoulders drop, and Lucas’s laughter is rancorous. 

“Facial recognition algorithm, lookit.” He drops the glove and it clangs on the ground, unfurling its fingers. The laptop is shoved in her face instead, showing a little window going at about 2 FPS of her, a few green boxes around her nose, her eyes and mouth. 

“Made it myself. It’ll only flip you off.” 

“That’s really fantastic, Lucas.” She picks it up and tosses it back onto the table. “Can I go?” 

He bounces on his heels, rocking back on his feet with his empty hand in his pocket. “What, you don’t like it?” 

“I’m tired.” 

He wrinkles his nose. “Hell, Zoe, you can’t even act like it’s cool? Took me a damn while to get it right n’ you don’t even care!” 

“Well it’s a little dinky glove that says ‘fuck you’ so I dunno what you want me to say.” 

“Just!” He throws his hand skyward, waving it this way and that. “I don’t know, fuck!” His foot connects with the coffee table’s leg, and everything on it jumps. “Ethan would at least--at least. Say ‘cool, good work’ or somethin’ stupid like that, you ain’t never been nice to me since we got here!” 

“And that surprises you? You tied me up in the goddamn boathouse and you want me to dote on you?” 

“I wasn’t gonna hurt you, damn, Zoe!” He points an accusatory finger. “I got us plenty of food besides Ma’s cookin’, you ‘n me were gettin’ along just fine!” 

“ _ Fine? _ ” Her voice has gone shrill, but she can’t find it in herself to care anymore. “You think we had it  _ fine? _ ” 

“Well it sure as hell wasn’t any worse, at least it was all in the open!” He kicks the coffee table again, turns away from her. “Least it wasn’t--wasn’t all waitin’ for the next binge and and walkin’ on eggshells no more. And at least I finally got--” 

“Got what? Freedom to do what you did up in that barn? You miss that?” 

His breaths are short now. Short, ragged things that he takes in through his nose and releases through his mouth. Maybe he does. Maybe at night when he can’t sleep, he remembers Clancy. Remembers Hoffman. Hoffman was a good one, really fought for it and cried like a good boy when it was over. And even after Clancy fucked with their first game, watching skin slough off his body in thick, wet chunks, listening to him scream and beg until his lungs dried up was incredibly satisfying. 

Sometimes it makes him think of Oliver and the other kids. 

“...When’s Ethan getting home?” 

He doesn’t see it, but he can hear Zoe’s sigh, her footsteps across the floor. “He’s back on Sunday at noon.” 

“Fuckin’ dick.” 

\---

Ethan nudges the door open with his hip, luggage in tow, hefting it up over the threshold unceremoniously. When he looks up, his eyes meet Lucas, and he turns a little pink about his own clumsiness.

“Oh. Hey, I. Wasn’t expecting you to be up.” 

Lucas shrugs. Doesn’t say anything. 

“...Are you okay?” 

His face scrunches. Mouth twisted into a frown, eyebrows drawn together. He knows his face is wet. By the uncomfortable heat in his throat, behind his eyes. By the way Ethan looks at him with stupid shock on his face. 

He sucks in stuttering breath. “You need help with that?” 

Ethan stares too much for his own good. He does it now, with dumb golden retriever eyes. “Uh. No, I’m alright.” He tugs the thing a bit closer to himself, as if to demonstrate that he has ample enough strength to handle it. “Are you okay?” Second time. 

Converse sneakers squeak on the floor when Lucas turns on his heels, walking back to his makeshift room. 

\---

Georgia takes Zoe out riding. She wants to pick Zoe up, asks for her address so she can ‘go butch on you’ and be a gentleman. Zoe knows she sounds strange and desperate, practically begging to drive there instead. In any case, Georgia accepts the conditions, and around sunset Zoe’s seated on the back of a great big bike with her arms around Georgia’s waist. They ride into town, through town, to the edge. Georgia tells her there’s an old park there. When they come into a parking lot, Georgia breaks in such a way that lets the back wheel swing out, marking a semi-circle on the cracked and crumbled pavement like a compass. Zoe giggles when she lets go and realizes her arms are shaking. 

“You’re pretty strong, jeez.” Georgia laughs and rubs at her waist, a little sore from the iron grip. 

“You drive like a maniac.” 

“Just because you like a little action.” She pops a quick kiss onto Zoe’s nose. The nose she called a button nose, and said she loved very much. 

The parking lot is overgrown with weeds, ranging from little patches of ivy to some thick, long stems that sport yellow buds, soon to be flowers. Georgia beckons her deeper into the urban thicket. Through a field to a chain link fence on the horizon, which they both easily scale. The concrete on the other side is in better shape, still mostly intact. It’s only once they approach the hole of it that Zoe realizes it's an old pool. Stripped of its trappings, it’s unrecognizable. No more ladders, lifeguard posts and umbrellas, no deck chairs. Just the empty hole, full of chipping blue paint. Plants are growing in the little puddle collected at the very bottom of it, almost fluorescent green. Georgia sits on the edge and pats a spot next to her. Zoe obliges. 

After only a few minutes, the sun disappears completely, leaving them in the blue light of dusk with the promise of a chill coming on. Zoe rests her head on Georgia’s shoulder. She smiles, presses her lips to the top of Zoe’s head. 

“Hey Martha?” Her voice rumbles into Zoe’s chest, all deep and slow and full of infatuation at the very least. It makes Zoe’s stomach clench up. 

“You should call me Zoe,” she keeps her voice low. In a soft voice used only for secrets. “Everyone calls me Zoe.” 

“Well Zoe,” she kisses again. “Talk to me. You’ve been quiet, I miss your accent.” 

“I ain’t got the faintest clue about what you’re talkin’ about.” 

It makes Georgia giggle and squeeze her into a hug. “You’re too cute…” The hug ends, but an arm remains around her, sharing some warmth. “Tell me about your day, what’s on your mind.” 

Zoe never knows what to say to those questions. Usually she just says ‘nothin’’, but Georgia always goes pouty on her when she tries it. She never wants to make up a story, though. She hates lying. Hates lying to Georgia especially, with her honeycrisp cheeks and granny smith eyes. 

“Not a lot.” 

It gets the disappointed sigh she’s expecting. “C’mon, M--Zoe...Tell meeeee...What did you do after work today? Did you draw more?” 

“A bit.” 

“You’re being quiet on me, hon…” 

She knows. She hates it, but she never knows what to do. Looking away, all she sees is the rot in the bottom of the pool. Green, sludge-y water and peeling paint and the still of abandonment. It reminds her too much of home. 

She wonders what Georgia would say, if she knew ‘Martha’ was the missing girl from Dulvey, if Georgia would turn her in. Maybe she’d be spared, just quietly left alone. Spared isn’t the right word for that, Zoe decides. If Georgia ever leaves her she’d need the wrenching force of separation by law, a uniform detachment from everyone else too. The thought that Georgia could up and disappear with any sort of ease makes arrest, experimentation far preferable. What is she doing letting someone have that sort of power over her?

Trust, she tries to remind herself, you trust Georgia, right? Trust. 

She thinks of her mother and her quiet spells. Her father mixing with his booze. Of a brother. Of a little girl and her chaperon. 

She thinks of a stranger on the phone, following her directions blind as all hell. 

Zoe speaks again, with her voice full-bodied. “You been watchin’ the news, Georgia?” 

\---

Stupid little things start disappearing from the house. Not knives anymore, thank God; just Lucas behaving like an annoying roomie. At first, it’s Zoe’s black nail polish. She quizzes Ethan about it at breakfast. Needs it for her date tonight, Georgia and her were both doing black and maybe he put it somewhere by mistake? He’s sure he doesn’t know? After insisting for about 20 minutes that he really hasn’t seen it, Lucas drags himself over to the table and drums his fingers on the table. Fingers tipped with a glossy coat of black polish. 

“Don’t it look good?” 

“Dammit, Lucas, where is it?” 

“My room.” 

Zoe’s stomping into the living room before he’s finished the two-word sentence, and he takes her place at the table. 

Ethan’s clothes are next. Socks at first, which he hardly notices. Then jeans. Then a shirt. He stops just short of boxers, which Ethan appreciates as much as he’s annoyed by it. Proof it’s deliberate, but a tasteful line to draw. Retaliation is petty, but the idea comes to him and he can’t really help it once he’s got it in his head. Lucas’s new favorite jacket goes through the wash and into his closet. The next day, he comes home for lunch with it on. 

“Lucas?” He yells from the foyer. 

“Whaaat?” Lucas calls back in a whine. 

“I’m going to Camilla’s, are you hungry?” 

A pause. “Fish tacos with everything and chips with the hot salsa.” 

“You gotta come if you want anything.” 

Then one of his signature long, drawn out groans where he runs out of breath only to take a brief gasp of air and get right back into it. When he finally comes out, he’s wearing Ethan’s old Lakers shirt, and they both stand in front of the door surveying the other’s attire. Matching thefts. Ethan grins big and foolishly, but not really caring, too proud of his little prank. Contrastingly, Lucas practically snarls at him. 

“Give me that.” He juts his hand out, fingers twitching in almost a grabbing motion, but perhaps changing his mind at the last minute. Doesn’t want to appear that childish. Ethan obliges, still smiling and not quite grasping the situation. It disappears when Lucas snatches the fleece out of his hands, throwing it on as aggressively as he can and zipping it up harshly over Ethan’s worn out tee. 

\---

“I’m gonna move my stuff.” 

“You’re huh?” Ethan looks up from the couch, to Lucas in his working corner. He’s got a pair of pliers in his hand, twisting some wires together like it’s nothing. Ethan had never been good at building circuits, was never nimble enough with his hands. Lucas does it like it’s natural. 

“I’m gonna move my stuff to the basement.” 

“Your station?” 

“All of it.” 

Ethan scrunches his nose. “The basement’s unfinished, it’s kinda gross down there.” 

“I’ve lived in worse.” 

It’s an understatement, dodging the point. He’s had worse, but he’s not getting anywhere close to that on Ethan’s watch. 

“When Zoe moves in with Georgia, you can have her room.” 

When, not if. It’s an inevitability at this point that Zoe nervously never acknowledges. In the last few months she’d spent less and less time actually in the house, and more and more nights with Georgia. Not growing apart from them, of course. Not from Ethan. She came home in the morning for the most part, texted when she wasn’t around. Ethan does his best not to tear up when he thinks about it. Paternalesque pride still blooms in his chest when Georgia’s name is mentioned. Atta girl, Zoe. 

“Don’t wanna wait.” He secures a nut to the ends of the wires, wraps it up in electrical tape. Ethan bought the nuts for him. 

“Why do you wanna move so bad all of a sudden, I thought you were fine?” Partly he’s probing, and partly he’s genuinely concerned if Lucas has just been stewing over it and is finally going to snap over the neglect. 

“I just do.” He shrugs, moving on to the next set of wires “Taste changed.” 

“Well. I can clean it up, I guess. I’ll vacuum and we can bring a space heater down there.” 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, I’ll do it myself.” 

Why are you telling me this then, Ethan wants to retort. But he bites his tongue, and doesn’t offer to help the next day as Lucas drags his mattress down the stairs. 

That night, Ethan wakes up with a dry mouth, needing to piss. He stumbles out of his room, feeling his way along the wall only to be surprised by faint light streaming down the hall outside from the living room. He takes his leak first, finding it to be more urgent. Walking to the kitchen for a glass of water takes him through the living room, where the TV is on but muted. Lucas must have come up and left it on, Ethan decides, and gets himself a drink. Leaning on the counter, trying to not inhale any water when he finally gets it to his lips, he sees shifting on the couch. 

“Lucas,” slips out of his mouth unbidden, and his voice cracks even after he’s had a drink. Everything is still weird and groggy and stiff on him. At the sound of his name, the sparse mess of Lucas’s dirty blonde hair appears above the arm of the couch. Ethan can’t see his face, just the top of his head and the peachfuzz that covers it which, despite being so minimal, still somehow looks shaggy. 

“What’re you doing?” 

“Sleeping.” Lucas’s voice lacks Ethan’s telltale grogginess.

“You’re awake.” Silence from living room. “On the couch,” he adds when he gets no response. 

“Basement’s cold.” 

“Do you want more blankets?” 

“No.” His hair disappears, and he shuffles himself around. Ethan wonders now how he possibly missed Lucas’s little figure on his couch. Lanky as he is, he doesn’t really fit. Too tall and long to fold up right and get comfortable. 

“Dude, c’mon…” ‘C’mon’ what, he’s not sure as he approaches the sofa, suddenly being certain when he tugs at the sleeve of Lucas’s hoodie. “You’re going to bed.” 

Lucas hems and haws a little bit, huffing when he stands and Ethan can feel that his breath is warmer than the rest of him. When he shoves Lucas off to the hall Ethan came from, Lucas casts an uneasy look over his shoulder but shambles off obediently after. Ethan stays and has another glass of water, feeling a lot better and ready to go back to bed. He turns off the TV and folds up the throw blanket Lucas had been under, draping it over the back of the couch and padding down the hall back to his own room. 

In sending Lucas down the hall, his intent had been that Lucas would take Zoe’s room for the night, though he supposes he can’t be too surprised that Lucas has taken his bed instead. Zoe would kill both of them if she found out someone took her room, even for a night. The dilemma makes him stand in the doorway, gawking, admittedly, at the other person in his bed. She probably wouldn’t find out if he  _ did _ borrow her room, but he knows just from how weird it makes him feel to even consider it that he wouldn’t get a lick of sleep. He could sleep on the couch. But then Lucas would notice and get mad that  _ he _ couldn’t sleep on the couch. The thought crosses his mind, incredibly briefly, that Lucas anticipated he would just get in bed with him and was totally cool with it. That’s probably not the case. Definitely isn’t, and he shakes his head at himself, dragging his hand over his face. He’s kinda sleepy-greasy and gross. And fucking tired, and damn if Lucas gets pissy about it, he can go sleep in Zoe’s room if he’s that opposed to it. 

The mattress dips considerably under the pressure of all his weight on one knee as he crawls into bed. He lifts Lucas’s arm to make room for himself. It only gets a little grunt and shuffle from the younger Baker, and Ethan eases onto his stomach, tucking his face into the pillow Lucas hasn’t taken. 

He still feels weird. Not as weird as he would in Zoe’s room, but still acutely aware of a lot of small details all of a sudden. The wheeze of Lucas’s breaths, his mouth hanging open, the fangs in the moonlight that didn’t seem so bright before, but now illuminates everything just so. It feels like he’s warmed up now that he’s in a real bed. Enough that Ethan thinks he can feel the heat radiating off him, which is probably his imagination. Lucas’s skin still felt unnaturally cold whenever they did touch in the living room. His shaggy, dusty hair makes him look like he’s glowing when the moon hits it, glints off all his sharp bits (collar bone, tip of his nose, cheeks) like it does with his too-big canines. It’s strange to see him looking relaxed. He’s always scowling, or wide-eyed and deranged, but now he’s just. Existing. It feels like time is a skin he’s peeled off, stepped out of and now stands beside. Like the world is one of Lucas’s little machines that’s been turned off. Just there to be looked at. Lucas rolls more onto his side, and it makes Ethan jump. He’s been staring. He squeezes his eyes shut, afraid that if he opens them he’s going to see near-monochrome ones looking back at him. When he does risk a peek, it’s only Lucas’s dark circles and eyelashes. Part of him remembers that this man once locked him in a room with a barrel full of gasoline, fully intending on burning him alive, and he’s just laying here wishing he had such pretty eyelashes too. 

He’s just tired. He closes his eyes again, promising himself it’s for good this time. 

Waking up is more a process than a singular event in the morning. The first pass at it is him waking up before his alarm, a little too warm. But not uncomfortable; he’s only vaguely aware of that feeling, just a little warm. He tries to roll to a new part of the mattress, a cooler part, which is difficult for some reason that his brain can’t process. When he does finally move, he bumps into something that twitches. 

“Wuh yer doin’...” Oh. Right. 

“Sorry, moving…” He tries again to roll away, still finding it hard. Lucas moves a little too, and whatever is making it such a hassle to move releases him. He curls up a little on his new spot, sighing in relief at the colder part of the sheet that meets his cheek. The heavy thing returns when he’s settled.  _ Arm _ , his brain finally clicks,  _ it’s his arm _ .  _ Oh _ , another piece of his brain thinks, _ that’s okay. _

The second time it’s his alarm who knows how many minutes, hours later. Lucas wakes him up more than the buzzer because  _ shit  _ there must be some molded in him yet; he definitely growls. 

“What the fuck is that?” 

“Alarm, it’s on your table.” His night table. On Lucas’s side--current side of the bed. He can hear Lucas smack it with excessive force, and then feels the jolt of him yanking the plug out of the socket. He’s using the arm that had been around Ethan earlier, and a bur of disappointment wedges into the back of his head... Because the room feels colder now. Yeah. Ethan closes his eyes again, waits for Lucas to settle back down and do the same but never feels the dip. When he turns his head, Lucas is still propped up on his elbow just sort of. Watching him. 

“What?” 

“Don’t remember there bein’ two fellas in here when I went to sleep.” 

“You took my bed.” 

“You were offerin’.” 

Ethan shrugs as best he can laying down. “Thought you’d take Zoe’s,” he says, like it explains the semi-convoluted logic of not taking the couch, Zoe’s, or the floor for that matter. But Lucas isn’t stupid, he can probably figure it for himself. Lucas continues his regarding before falling onto his back. 

“Slept like a baby.” 

“That’s good.” 

“It’s better than the air mattress.” 

“I told you when Zoe moves out you can have hers.” He pinches his eyebrows together. Fighting with Lucas over the sleeping arrangement is the last thing he wants to do right now, when he can barely keep his eyes open. Surprisingly though, Lucas drops it. 

When he wakes up the third time, he doesn’t remember going back to sleep. He’d assume he’d only blinked if it wasn’t for the fact that Lucas is asleep again too. He has to get up now if he wants to be out of bed before noon. Or 1, maybe, if the noon ship has sailed by now. He extricates himself carefully from the sheets, doing his best not to jostle Lucas up too much. Despite his best efforts, he seems to notice and thrashes around a bit until he settles on top of where Ethan was. Ethan just waits for him to settle before pulling the blankets back up over his shoulders, half ironically considering tucking him in. Lucas sleeps for another half hour, nuzzling his face more into the sheets when the smell of something cooking threatens the scent of this spot on the bed that he’s finding himself rather fixated on. 

Ethan makes breakfast sandwiches since it’s kind of brunch now, which Lucas comes out just in time for. 

“You want Sriracha?” Ethan slides a plate to him. His is on a different bread, just plain toast while Ethan has an English muffin. It makes him queasy to think that Ethan remembered he hated English muffins. He nods for the Sriracha; Ethan tosses it to him and he barely catches it. His also has extra ham, which he appreciates as he drowns it all in hot sauce. 

Ethan plunks himself down next to Lucas, eating with one hand and resting his head in the other. He has a bad bedhead, and he looks all glassy. Unfocused eyes, shiney cupid’s bow. 

“What’re you doin’ today?” Lucas asks him for the first time in this life. He cringes immediately after, but Ethan just takes it in stride. 

“Probably nothing, this feels like a lazy day.” He chews his next bite with an air of consideration. “You want me to bring your stuff back upstairs?” 

“No,” Lucas says without a pause. “I can do it myself,” he says after a moment. 

“Just offering, man.” Ethan eats the last bit of his sandwich, waits next to Lucas until he’s finished too, and takes both their plates to the sink. 

Lucas has trouble sleeping that night. Which he usually does whenever he sleeps. It feels different this time, though. Different because instead of just the vague alertness that usually keeps him up, he can really identify this one. He’s sick of the mattress. Sick of the lumpy plastic with weird seams and bits that poke him if his leg slips off, sick of the way the sheets don’t fit right. Too loose, too easy to get tangled in and suffocate under. He fixes his eyes shut and tries to think about Ethan’s bed. A real mattress. Just a little taste of it and now he needs more, Jesus Christ. His bed. Soft and warm with sheets that felt cleaner than his did fresh out of the wash, and. The smell, shamefully. Maybe he’s getting sick of himself, of his own scent trapped up in his linens or something. His thoughts drift to the Lakers shirt that he still has. It’s with the rest of his clothes in the coat closet that’s now his, and he fucking hates the way his ears burn when he actually considers fetching it. He’d worn it a lot, but maybe it still. Smells right. He winces at himself, but doesn’t deny the urge in the end. He shucks off his own PJs and pulls it over his head, plodding back to bed like he’s pulling a Walk of Shame. 

Laying on his back, arms crossed over his chest, he does feel a bit better. It’s probably his favorite shirt, whatever stupid cotton material it’s made out of is sorta stiff and he likes the texture of it. He tucks his nose to chest and breaths in. Deeply. The first part of it still smells like him, but the...aftertaste part is distinctly Ethan. Maybe he should ask the guy what shampoo he uses, Christ. 

Eventually, he pulls the thing off to ball it up and press his face into it instead. Which helps, actually. For a while he’s convinced it’ll put him to sleep. But the night drags on, and stuffing his face into the wad gets too hot, and if he’s not doing that then he can’t smell it right, and then he can’t fucking get to sleep. He balls his fist around the sleeve of the shirt and thwacks it hard against the floor as if to punish it for not locking in the exact right scent he apparently needs to sleep now. He’s so sick of his bed. Of the stupid fishbowl living room and being this close to the floor and not being able to move his leg five inches without his foot hitting the hardwood or the god damn plastic scratching him. He’s so involved in his list of grievances, he hardly notices he’s approaching Ethan’s door until he’s there, hand poised at the handle. 

Of course, he’s not actually going to do this. ‘This’ being. Asking for permission to do whatever he’s needing. He does consider chewing Ethan out in the middle of the night to send home the message. By the time he decides against it, though, he’s stood outside the door so long he’s tempted himself again.  _ Right there _ , he thinks. _ It’s right there, you just have to take it, Lucas. _ C’mon, he half psyches himself into it, hand hovering by the handle again.  _ No fucking way _ , he yanks his hand back to himself, smacking his thigh sort of intentionally. It’s stupid, and he’s being a baby about it. He’s slept there for however many months it’s been (seven, he thinks), and he can do it again. He stomps at the floor, kicking at a weird angle so it hurts his ankle.  _ Don’t be such a loser about it, c’mon.  _ He circles around now, trying his damndest to convince himself to get back into his own bed. What’s another night? He’s never needed cushy luxuries and he won’t start now. And what does he care if he doesn’t sleep, anyway? All nighters are nothing new to him. Yeah, it’s fine. He tells himself that, turning on his heel and stomping a few steps down the hall, almost believing it until Ethan’s door creaks open. 

He looks over his shoulder, guilt widening his eyes. 

“What are you doing?” Ethan squints through eyelids that won’t stay open. Falling closed and cracking open a few times as they stare each other down. 

“What are  _ you  _ doing?” Lucas scrunches his nose. 

“I heard stomping.” 

“Well I was just goin’ anyway.” 

Ethan gives him what Lucas guesses is a perplexed look. It’s hard to tell when all his expressions are sort of screwed up and pinched with how tired he is. “Are you good?” 

“Yeah, I was just.” Just nothing. He twirls his hand through the air to communicate the last word, which Ethan regards drearily. 

“Right. Okay.” He slides his hand down the doorframe he’s been steadied against, turning halfway around. “Goodnight, Lucas.” He’s nearly fully turned, door handle in his grasp when Lucas croaks out: 

“Wait.” 

He does. Too well, just standing there bleary eyed and expectant. 

“Aw, hell, what?” 

“You said wait.” Ethan bunches his eyebrows again, doing a way better job at whispering. 

“Just!” Lucas’s whisper comes out more just a hissy, normal volume voice than anything else. “Fuckin’. God damn, get outta my way, Ethan.” He would slam his shoulder into Ethan if the latter didn’t step out of his way so deftly. He belly-flops onto the bed, splaying his limbs out and relishing in the way his feet dangle off the edge. He’s still in the Lakers shirt, he realizes kind of belatedly and knows he’s blushing for it. He probably looked stupid standing there in it. 

Ethan doesn’t come back for a while. For what feels like hours to Lucas, lying there on his stomach where he isn’t welcome. He does come, though, if the creak and tilt of the mattress to left is any indication. Right. Done and done. Lucas can’t help but pout a little into the sheets. Just like that. He knows he should be glad. Maybe he was hoping for a fight or something. But no, of course, Ethan just accepts it all graciously, curled up on his side of the bed. 

He wishes Ethan would protest. He feels silly now: fretting, he realizes, over not being able to explain himself and leaving Ethan to suspect and postulate whatever he feels like. Almost, he pipes up with “I’m not here for you or anything so don’t take it like any weird shit, I probably won’t be back.” But he doesn’t. Ethan’s breathing slow now, and if Lucas woke him up it certainly wouldn’t be conducive in getting his way. Which he has got, he reminds himself. So he should probably shut his brain up and sleep. 

“I can hear you thinking.” 

Lucas nearly jumps out of his skin. “Huh?” 

“You’re over there stewing, and I can tell.” Ethan rolls onto his back, awake, evidently. “Are you good?” He asks for a second time. 

“I dunno.” Lucas has to stop himself from smacking his own forehead at that. “Yeah, I’m fuckin’. Yeah. I’m fine, Ethan.” 

“Suit yourself.” He flips back onto his side, closes his eyes presumably. 

Lucas is out within the minute. 

Miraculously, he wakes up first. Awake with his eyes closed, waiting for Ethan to get up and leave. He doesn’t feel like getting out of bed just yet. 

Ethan seems to have the same idea. Lucas can feel him moving more, hear him take the sharp breath of consciousness hitting him, and then never gets the lifting of weight that he’s waiting so patiently for. Ethan just lays there, doing this little motion with his ankle over and over. Making little snuffling sounds and adjusting his grip on the pillow under his head. Now it’s a game of chicken, if only just for him. At some point, Ethan does actually sit up, and Lucas lets himself give a little mental hurrah, just to have him snuggle right back down. Lucas opens his eyes then, finally, to see that Ethan’s sort of at an angle so his head is in the middle of the crescent shape Lucas is making with his own body. Lucas did always like puzzles. 

“I have to piss.” He announces it for no reason other than that he suspects Ethan might like to know where he is in the house. 

“Have fun.” 

When he comes back to bed, Ethan looks like he wasn’t expecting a return, and he scoots out of the way a little so they aren’t wrapped around each other’s shapes so much. Lucas does his best not to mourn the loss of the moment. 

“If you want, I could buy you a mattress topper.” Ethan says with his arms folded over his stomach, head on the pillow and body plank straight. 

Lucas shrugs. “Zoe’s not gonna be here much longer.” Truth be told, he knows more than Ethan does about the situation. Georgia’s brought it up--the prospect of living together, and Zoe made him promise not to tell. 

“He’s gonna cry when I tell him, and I don’t want him all draggin’ himself around mopey as fuck for the last week I’m still around,” had been her excuse. Lucas had just shrugged. He wasn’t a gossip, he would keep his mouth shut even if Zoe didn’t ask him to. 

“What are you gonna do until then?” Ethan’s looking over at him now with his default, sort of angry looking expression. He’s got chronic resting bitch-face. 

“You can sleep on the couch.” Lucas burrows himself further into the pillows to emphasize his claim. Ethan doesn’t look very assumed by it. 

“I’ll get you a topper.” He says it with finality, and wriggles so his back is to Lucas. 

Lucas stares at him. Stares hard, with purpose like he could stab through that stupid back with a gaze and soak the sheets crimson. He’s clenched his fists without realizing it, let his whole body go tense and start to tremble, which makes Ethan roll over again. Ethan’s eyes go wide at the sight: Lucas’s face flush, blotchy red, jaw set, eyes red-rimmed and puffy and wet. 

“Dude, are--” 

“Oh my fucking God, Ethan, for once in your fucking life could shut the fucking god damn hell UP!” His voice raises constantly as he speaks, until he’s yelling so loud his voice breaks. Ethan watches his mouth as he lets obscenities spill out, eyes not leaving the fangs hiding in there. It reminds him of the night in the hotel. Another spasm goes through his body, and Lucas sits up, burying his face in his hands feeling like the dumbest piece of shit on Earth. In Ethan’s house, Ethan’s bed, Ethan’s shirt bawling his fucking eyes out for no real reason. 

Ethan still doesn’t leave. Which is both a relief and annoys him. He just stays there, sitting up too now, and eventually putting a hand on Lucas’s back as he sobs it out. Through the worn shirt, Ethan can feel the individual bumps of Lucas’s spine. 

“I just--” Lucas chokes out, and Ethan holds his breath. “Just. Fuck, I dunno.” He wipes his arm across his eyes, sniveling and still looking forlorn. “I just wanna kill someone, Jesus Christ.” It’s an oversimplification, but he doesn’t really feel like going through the whole thing. Somehow Ethan’s hand doesn’t leave after he says that, though it does go still instead of doing little circles like it was. 

“I don’t think that’s really in the cards right now,” he says finally, and makes Lucas laugh at first. Then sob anew, because it makes him think about Louisiana again. 

For the most part he’s done what Zoe has, what Ethan must be doing. Put it out of his mind, forget it and get on with the world again. It’s easier than remembering as he is now, that little lick of freedom. Fresh meat regularly, new games to play--though he did have favorites. He thinks about Clancy in his Birthday Puzzle. At first he’d been a little worried it’d be too on the nose, but watching him scramble, tearing streamers from the ceiling covered in frosting that caramelized into his skin with the heat--God. It’d been better than a good wank. He didn’t usually keep his bodies, but he’d kept Clancy’s just to look and smile at. He’d never seen Oliver’s body. By the time he went up in the attic again, he’d been too much of a mess to really appreciate. Bones were never exciting to look at, and the flesh that had been on them was fully melted with rot. Just soup soaking the wood. Lucas imagines that at some point, he’d been all crumbly and blackened the way Clancy was--with mold, not from char. With the face and hair gone, it’s easy to picture. 

Ethan squeezing on his shoulder brings him back to the present. Thinking about games has calmed him down enough that he isn’t spilling his heart out through his eyes anymore, though he does keep his face hidden anyway. He can feel that it’s still all hot and muddled looking. Peeking through his hands, he’s a little mortified to see how close they’ve gotten. He doesn’t want to be coddled. 

“Ethan?” 

“Hm?” 

“Can ya get outta my face for a second?” 

It makes him laugh, which Lucas supposes is an okay reaction. “Alright.” He gives Lucas another little pat before standing, and Lucas falls onto his back keeping an arm over his eyes. 

Ethan does his best to be busy in the kitchen, does the dishes, winds up disinfecting the counters and wiping down the microwave and Swiffering because he doesn’t have anything else to do. He understands, on a very surface level, why Lucas does that. He’s got a lot going on, and Ethan is doing his best to be empathetic of that, but that’s about where the understanding ends. The ‘why’ doesn’t go past a vague idea of ‘something’ that is, evidently, weighing him down pretty constantly. Lucas hardly seems like someone who would be down for an impromptu therapy session between bros, though. So he stays out of it. Lucas comes out of his room a lot later. Ethan gets him his mattress topper. 

\---

Zoe is right about Ethan: he does cry when she announces it. She tries to make it a casual little thing to take it easy on him, but he immediately mists up. 

It happens when she brings Georgia home for a lunch date. Lucas hadn’t been invited (Georgia was okay fucking his sister, but not so much looking at him), but he’s content to just come and take his food and leave. It happens when they’re all in the room, Lucas rifling through the food she’s brought home in a bag while she tries to dole the rest of it out around him. 

“So, after this me n’ Georgia were thinkin’ that maybe we could uh. Pack up some of my stuff.” 

Ethan freezes with his sandwich in his hand, and Lucas stops his rummaging. “Huh?” 

“Just the essential stuff for now, nothing crazy.” She tries to act like it’s nothing, and Lucas is trying not to roll his eyes. Of course this is how she would do it. Borderline insensitive. 

“You’re--like. Now? You’re doing it?” His eyes get all glittery with tears that aren’t falling yet. Zoe purses her lips and shrugs. Her cheeks are red, and Georgia puts a hand on her arm. 

“Zoe--” Ethan’s voice cracks, and he swipes at his eyes with his free hand. “You’re an asshole, I’m not gonna be able to eat now.” Georgia laughs a little at that, which does at least get a hint of a smile out of him.

“She said you guys suspected.” Georgia tries to offer in consolation. He shrugs. 

“Well, yeah, but.” He sniffles, looking ridiculously pitiful. “I dunno, it’s just sad anyway.” Georgia reaches to him now, grabbing for the hand that doesn’t have a ham sandwich in it. “Ethan, I’m not gonna steal her away forever.” 

“Yeah…” His voice has a watery, weak quality that makes Zoe unable to look at him for very long. “Just sad.” 

Zoe knows it’s for the best. She’d thought about it a lot, talked about it even more with Georgia, even with Lucas just the once. And she knows they’ll be happy together, and for as much as they’ve enjoyed their time together, she knows she’s got to stop putting Ethan out so much. Facing it, though, dredges up all her anxieties like she never laid them to rest in the first place. Part of her, all these months later, still has a needling sense of dread over him. Like she’s got to protect him still from. Everything, things that don’t exist anymore.

He makes her give him a hug, which she tries not to make a face during, because Georgia will see and laugh if she does. She’d never liked hugging or touching very much. As he holds onto her, though, she eases into it, relaxing her shoulders and giving him a gentle squeeze back. 

“Ethan, if you don’t want it, I’ll eat your sandwich,” Georgia speaks up at just the right time, making them both laugh. Georgia is, of course, better at Zoe’s plan than she is herself. Truly her better half. She presses a kiss into Georgia’s round little cheek once Ethan’s sat back down. They lace fingers under the table, and Zoe wonders why she was ever nervous. 

They leave in Georgia’s car with Zoe behind the wheel. It’s not the last time they’re ever going to see each other, but Ethan insists on standing in the driveway like someone’s grandma and seeing her off. He waves the whole time, back turned to Lucas who’s in the doorway, but undoubtedly crying. Zoe waves back to him for a while before turning her eyes to the brother regarding her with very calculated disinterest. She waves to him too, and he returns it with languid, masturbatory motions. She just smiles and flips him off, sticking her hand out the window to really fling it at him. He flips a double bird back, keeping his smile to just a little smirk. For posterity reasons. 

Ethan’s still weepy when he comes up the steps, thumbing away at his cheeks. Lucas makes a point of rolling his eyes, shutting the door behind them as they file back inside. 

“You’re gonna see her tomorrow, I dunno what you’re cryin’ so much about.” 

“It’s just sad!” He repeats himself for the thirtieth time on this point. “It’s like. The end of an era, you know? Like graduating highschool.” 

Lucas scrunches his nose. “Did you cry when you graduated?” 

“Of course I did, are you joking?” Ethan’s bitch-face gets a little more prominent. “You’re telling me you didn’t?” 

“Fuck no,” Lucas puffs his chest out, feeling a little proud. “I just got the hell out.” 

Ethan only rolls his eyes. “Well, good for you, tough guy.” He plants his elbows on the counter, tears plopping down to the marble occasionally. 

“I didn’t think I was gonna cry this much, I’ll give you that.” Ethan places his head in his hand, pouting a little over the lack of control he has over it. Not so much an active sobbing so much as he’s just sprung a leak. 

“I knew if you cried you’d be a big baby about it,” Lucas calls from the other side of the kitchen, rummaging again through the fridge now. He comes padding back to Ethan, extending a hand with a beer in it. His pick, none of the ‘hipster fuckhead shit’ Ethan would’ve bought. 

“You need this.” 

Ethan regards the bottle for only a moment before taking it. 

They end up getting kind of wasted. Lucas more than Ethan, but it hardly matters past a certain point barring someone getting blackout drunk. Ethan reclines on the couch, barely even on it, and Lucas fits himself in too. He swings one leg over the back, plants one foot on the ground, and Ethan can’t help but make a move like he’s going to hit him in the dick. Lucas jumps away, pulling his foot back like he’s gonna pop Ethan in the nose, which makes him scream. Lucas cackles in return. 

“You fucker, don’t fuckin’. Get your shit near my shit.” He polishes off his current bottle. “You know the scene from the movie?” 

Ethan smiles real dopey at him. “Huh?” 

“The.” He waves his hands around like it means something. “Shark movie, fuckin’. Jaws, you know?” 

“I know Jaws.” 

Lucas points to him with the empty bottle still in his hand, lowers his eyes so he’s peering up now. He drops his voice low to match.

“Show me the way to go home.” 

Ethan’s eyes shine with more than just glassy drunkenness.“I’m tired an’ I wanna go to bed!” He sings his line too loud, not really caring. 

“I had a little drink aboutta hour ago and it got right to my head!” They belt it out in unison, shouting more than singing. 

“Wherever I may roam! By land or sea or foam, you can always hear me singin’ this song! Show me the way to go home!” Lucas jumps up as they come around again, stomping out the beat a flurry of movements that couldn’t be called dancing. They sing it again, Ethan stumbling up when he can’t take it anymore and Lucas hooks their arms together. They spin one direction, let go and twirl before linking again and spinning the other direction. Over and over, faster and faster, belting out whatever jaunty tune strikes them. Lucas loses his balance first, nearly knocking Ethan down too as he falls to the couch. Ethan stays on his feet, bouncing in circles, whirling himself to the clapping and chanting from Lucas until he falls too, landing hard on his ass. It hurts, but he is way too drunk to notice. They both take a moment, silent now except for heavy breathing. Ethan wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. He’s actually worked up a sweat, and being aware of it makes him feel like he needs a shower immediately. 

“Okay,” Lucas breaks the silence, pulling his legs up onto the couch with the rest of himself. “Goodnight, Ethan.” 

“Nuh-uh, wait.” He pushes himself onto all fours before getting up, struggling way more than he thought he would. “You can’t sleep on the couch, you get the new room.” 

“Oh, shit.” He sounds like he actually forgot. Ethan helps him get to his feet, and he starts singing again as he goes. It’s ‘Happy Birthday’, which does, admittedly, drain the color from Ethan’s face for a moment. Just a present for him, he has to remind himself, taking a sip of beer to help calm his nerves. 

He has more nightmares that night. In the morning he’ll blame it on the beer, but he knows it’s her absence already affecting him. He dreams he’s in the basement of the house, in the room with the green foam tiles that would ooze blood when he stepped on them. He’s hunkered down behind the metal table in the middle of the room, face to face with a bag of something rank, holding his breath. Half for the stench, half because he knows he’s being followed. The gun in his hand, he notices, is out of ammo, and he quickly fumbles for some ammo. He needs to be ready for when it catches up to him. He finally finds some in his pocket, hands shaking badly so it’s fucking impossible to line the damn things up so they fall into the clip right. He’s only just slamming his palm up against the butt of the pistol, locking the clip in place when the thing slithers into the room. Wet, black, skin never quite still. Its mouth flutters, teeth turned out like a goblin shark. A low croak and groaning hiss fills the room, and Ethan places his finger on the trigger. Clear shot, he reminds himself, just wait for the shot. The thing shambles about aimlessly, unaware of him still, finally coming to a hole in the wall that it sniffs at intently, standing still just for him. 

He jolts to his feet, knees on fire from kneeling and pulls the trigger. _ Clink.  _

Nothing happens. His movements have made the thing turn its head and it hisses at him, sending spittle flying his direction. Again, he pulls the trigger.  _ Clink.  _ His heart is tearing itself apart beating so fast. It can’t be fucking empty, he just reloaded. He reaches into his pocket, backing up as fast as he can as the thing ambles his way. He can’t find any more ammo. Knife. Clumsy hands find it in his back pocket, and it makes a sickening clatter when it slips from his fingers. 

He’s sweating now, dripping from his forehead into his eyes and stinging, making it hard to see. He wipes it away, but when he pulls his hand away it’s drenched in blood. Panicked, he presses his hand again to his forehead, feeling the gash that’s suddenly there gushing an obscene amount of blood. Under his palm, he feels the skin split wider and winces. The monster before him has stopped too, to observe the scene before it. The wound keeps growing. Longer across his skin, then deeper. Ethan cries out as the thin layer of fat and muscle behind the skin is torn away, exposing the bone of his skull. That splits too. With a crackling sound that doesn’t stop and pain that makes his vision go white. He screams as loud as he can, but the sound of teeth exploding from his own head drowns it out in his ears. The mouth in his head gurgles and chokes before coughing, and Ethan drops to the ground, vomiting along with the mouth that’s spitting up his brains. 

When he wakes up, he’s uncomfortably sticky with sweat. His mouth, in contrast with the rest of his body, is unbearably dry. Hungover, waking up in a cold sweat. A great way to start the day, he thinks with mock saccharine. 

Lucas is still passed out in his new bed. Ethan checks just to make sure he’s alright. Not throwing up on himself or. Doing something that only Lucas would get up to. But he’s only draped across the bed diagonally, all his clothes still on, down to his shoes. Ethan shuts the door as lightly as he can. 

In the kitchen, he makes himself coffee and a water, leaving the pot on the hot pad for when Lucas wakes. Three glasses of water finally do something for his cottonmouth, and he even takes an Aspirin. It’s been a minute since he’s actually been truly hungover, but he remembers the typical motions, the breakfast he swore by, which is a peanut butter and toaster waffle sandwich. Lucas, of course, comes out when the smell of something cooking is noticeable in the air. He looks sick all over again. Ghastly pale, red eyes, but lacking the characteristic energy of his heyday. He lays his torso over the counter, pressing his cheek to the cool surface and groaning. Ethan nods in agreement. 

“You feel like shit?” Lucas mumbles against the marble. 

“I feel worse than shit.” 

“Cheers to that.” Lucas slides off the counter, down the wooden panelling of the cabinets and to the floor, where he lays. “What are you making?” 

“Waffles, you feel like eating?” 

“Mhmm.” 

“I can put some more in.” He fetches the box from the freezer, and Lucas hums in approval. 

After breakfast Lucas ends up back in bed, apparently relishing the new situation, which Ethan can’t blame him for. He does the dishes despite his headache. He needs to feel busy for now, the feeling of his nightmare still clinging onto the edges of his awareness and needing to be put out. There’s only the two plates and the mugs, which doesn’t take long at all. He busies himself the living room next. Lots of bottles to rinse and recycle, which takes maybe 2 minutes. The task of Lucas’s old bed will be the most occupying, so he saves it for last. First the sheets. Setting the pillows aside, he strips the bed down, putting them in the wash. Then the actual deflating of the mattress, which takes even longer than filling it does, and a lot of stomping and sitting on and squishing the thing until it’ll lie flat and be rolled up again. He puts it back in the box he’d insisted on keeping when they bought it. Mia hadn’t understood. Ethan didn’t want bugs or dust getting to it in storage, but he was always the finicky one. 

He leaves the pillows in their cases for the same reason, not wanting to get anything on the part he can’t toss in the wash. Outside the linen closet where they store the unused bedding, he shakes the pillows out of the cases and stuffs them away. In picking up the discarded covers, though, something else plops to the ground with a fat, soft noise. 

His Lakers shirt. Folded into a neat little square. 

He leaves it on the floor of Lucas’s bedroom, just beyond the door. 

Lucas won’t meet his eye for the rest of the day, and it feels sort of like a victory. 

\---

The house turns a bit bachelor pad-y without Zoe’s help, and Lucas’s continued habit of moving through rooms like a small tornado. Nothing’s ever left in quite the right spot, and Ethan is always finding dishes in odd corners of the house. Friday becomes the designated day for Lucas to clear his room out of cups and plates and bowls and empty bottles and cans and wrappers, because without a day set aside like that it takes too much goading. He feels a little like a housewife sometimes, standing at the sink and washing cups until his fingers go pruney. 

Lucas keeps himself busy in his own way. The basement becomes his again, for a workshop only. He’s going through a new phase of robots, ones that he builds so that turning them on causes them to tear themselves apart. It’s a preferable alternative to people, though clearly derivative, but Ethan still hates watching it happen. Lucas does drag him down to his shop sometimes for the especially impressive ones. They twitch too much as they ‘die’, and make too much mechanical noise for Ethan to detach any empathy from them. It must be apparent on his face whenever he watches, because Lucas samples his own voice to make one of them scream. Making Ethan squirm becomes part of the game. 

When he’s at work filling out forms, he thinks about Lucas a lot. About his creations, and where they’re going from here. Zoe moving out is probably the seed, but it germinates pretty quickly into a series of worrying thoughts. 

Lucas’s employment status has been steady: he’s not, but whenever that crosses Ethan’s mind it’s quickly dampened down. Lucas is still too identifiable. If the accent and the eyes don’t give him away, the mannerisms surely will. And even if they don’t, they’ll keep him from getting hired. Not like Lucas has put himself out there at all, but Ethan feels like he can’t complain when he sees the defeating logic of the scenario. Still, he sometimes entertains the fantasy that Lucas finds  _ something.  _ It’d have to be tactile, but not repetitive. Very rarely, he entertains the idea that Lucas would actually like to design and build computers or maybe even get into backend coding and maintaining a server. Ethan could be his foot in the door. He knows the right people. He thinks again to the sight of Lucas’s last creation. A wind up beast, made of metal and rubber bands and springs so that after thrashing about, its pieces went flying in all directions. 

Eventually. Maybe. 

\---

Lucas’s birthday rolls around eventually. After 30, Ethan decided he would let his come and go without a lot of fuss, but he knows Lucas’s is coming for the entire week leading up. He throws himself into it. Obsessively, more than Ethan’s ever seen him do before and all the while he keeps it a big secret. 

“Every birthday’s special, Ethan,” is what he says when questioned about the vigorous intensity. 

“You’re turning 26, and at most me and Zoe will be there.”

Lucas scoffs at him. “Zoe ain’t invited.” 

“It would be nice if we invited her.” 

That makes him huff, put his hands on his hips. “I am makin’ this party for  _ you _ , Ethan, it ain’t for goddamn Zoe.” 

Ethan gives him a perplexed look. “But it’s your party.” 

Lucas just bugs his eyes and throws his hands in the air, like that’s what he’s just said. 

The night before his party, Ethan wakes up a few times in the middle of the night to various thumps and thuds, and he dreads what waits for him outside his door. 

\---

On the morning of October 19th, Lucas sets off a confetti popper in Ethan’s face as a wake-up call. 

“ _ Fuck! _ ” Ethan shouts, flailing his arms in the direction of the blast and almost toppling off the bed entirely. 

“Rise and shine, Ethan Winters!” Lucas belts his name out like it’s a song. “It’s time to riiiiise and shiiiine and give God your glory, glory!” Which  _ is _ a song. 

“Yeah, I’m fucking. Awake now, thank you.” He runs a hand through his hair, catching some glittery scraps of paper that’ve stuck to him. 

“Well, you better get all prettied up, Ethaaan!” Lucas reaches in and ruffles Ethan’s hair for himself. “You’ve got a party to make it to! Don’t wanna be late now.” He claps the back of Ethan’s head at that, which doesn’t hurt as much as Lucas probably wanted it too, and the Baker son scurries off before Ethan can tell him as much. 

The first thing he’s greeted with once he steps out of his bedroom is limp streamers hanging from the doorframe. Their coarse, leafy fingers make him jump more than he’s keen to admit when they slide across his face. Lucas is in the kitchen at the stove, and Ethan almost makes a snide comment about how he didn’t even know Lucas could turn on a burner. But it’s his birthday, so instead Ethan takes a step toward him. Craning his neck, Ethan can see that it’s french toast. 

“That looks good.” 

“Gotta start with a good birthday breakfast.” Lucas smiles with his teeth, and Ethan has to remind himself that it should instill dread. “Have a seat ‘n I’ll getcha taken care of, city boy.” Lucas points with the flipper, and definitely flings some egg across the room in doing so. Ethan obeys regardless, taking a seat to wait for his breakfast. Lucas follows some minutes later with a large plate, stacked high with the toast. He sets it down in the middle of the table before taking Ethan by the arm. 

“You need to sit here.” He yanks Ethan from his spot at the head of the table to a side seat, and Ethan staggers with the pull. He plunks down, and Lucas pushes down on both his shoulders as if to secure him there. “Let me get the other guests.” 

Ethan’s head whips around as Lucas skips into the other room. Other guests, it turns out, means more of his little robot toys. ‘Little’ being more patronizing than descriptive; these are actually much larger than any of the other ones Ethan’s seen. They have limbs and bodies, though most of them dangle uselessly. Where they would have heads, Lucas has supplied paper bags with smileys drawn on. He seats each one carefully, flipping a switch on their backs until they’re all alive. Twitching back and forth seems to be their only function, though one seems to be capable of periodically slamming its ‘fist’ on the table. Satisfied with the preparations, Lucas finally seats himself at the head. 

“Well?” 

Ethan perks up. “What?” 

“You ain’t got any manners in you or what?” He points to the french toast. “Eat, before it gets cold, stupid.” He sneers when he says it, like he had readied the line beforehand. Which he probably did. 

Ethan obliges him, using his knife and fork to grab up a few slices. Butter and syrup have been provided, and he makes liberal use of both, as does Lucas. It’s actually good, which Ethan supposes can’t be too surprising. It’s hard to screw up french toast. Still, when he makes eye contact with Lucas in the middle of a bite, he does his best to smile with a full mouth. He hasn’t been cooked breakfast in a while. 

They’ve finished off the french toast without incident, and Ethan opens his mouth to say ‘thanks’ when the robot closest to him explodes. 

More accurately, the balloon under the bag that Lucas filled with confetti pops, but it’s loud as all hell and he’s let his guard down, so for a moment he’s sure he’s just died. Lucas is cackling once he realizes he’s still alive, clutching at his chest and panting for the breath he’s almost certain he shouldn’t be able to take. 

“Oh  _ Lord _ , Ethan!” He smacks at the table in glee and does one of his loud hoots. “Oh, your face is just too precious.” His expression is decidedly snide, and Ethan knows he’s pouting back. It just makes Lucas laugh again. 

“It’s so hard to wait, but it’s  _ so _ worth it.” 

Their breakfast is a prelude to the main act as it turns out, not one in a series of petty pranks. Ethan is free to go once he’s had the living hell scared out of him by a confetti robot. Free to do what he pleases besides take down any decorations Lucas has put up (a lot) or take off the paper party hat he’s been supplied (also by Lucas). Lucas doesn’t tell him this, of course. He leaves Ethan to flounder, tip toe around the house and check the closests in every room, inspect the toilet before using it, then again before flushing. It takes him way too long to realize there isn’t anything hiding around the house, way too many times passing Lucas and getting leered at until he realizes Lucas is just getting off on the fear alone. 

For dinner they have pizza delivered, and cake of Lucas’s making for dessert. This time, Ethan allows himself to be impressed. It’s red velvet, and when Lucas cuts into it he gives Ethan a good waggle of his eyebrows. Implications aside, Ethan finds himself wolfing it down a bit piggishly. He’s feeling good once he’s finished it. Full of pizza and cake, sipping a beer on his couch, and for a moment he wonders if Lucas really only had the one scare planned. 

“Alright.” Lucas stands, hands planted on his hips. “It’s time for presents.” 

Ethan looks at him dumbly. He did actually have a present for Lucas, but hadn’t told him about it. Though it wouldn’t be beyond him to have snooped and found it. 

“You mean. What I got you or do you mean there’s something else you have?” 

Lucas mirrors the face Ethan had been making. “Huh?” 

“I got you a present,” he points with his thumb toward his bedroom. “It’s. I mean it’s stupid, but. I guess that’s not what you meant.” 

Lucas blinks at him a few times. It makes him feel a little proud to have thrown Lucas off script so immediately. 

“Uh. Well. We can do that later, we have to do this first.” His nose scrunches, and Ethan smiles as he’s instructed to close his eyes and place his palms facing up. 

His instinct is trust. It isn’t until the weight of a box is dropped into his hands that he realizes he’s just given Lucas the lead in terms of the power dynamic, which may very well be a dangerous shift at a time like this. Oops. 

Whatever it is, it crinkles when he catches it. 

“You can open them now.” 

He does, revealing to himself a garbage bag wrapped in duct tape with a vaguely rectangular shape. After struggling with it, tearing apart the plastic and shucking off bands of tape he feels his face fall. There’s a padlock on it. 6 letter combination. 

“It’s not ‘LOSER’, I’ll tell you that much.” Lucas is smiling proudly in front of him, legs crossed and jiggling his foot with excited energy. “Too bad Clancy can’t help you with this one.” 

“It’s not gonna--” 

Lucas crosses his heart with his twig fingers. “No bombs, no shrapnel, no fire.” 

Ethan raises an eyebrow. That’s his modus operandi, to be sure, but not a clean ‘nothing that will hurt you’, which is incredibly telling. 

“Do I get a hint to start?” 

Lucas points to the box, uncrossing his legs and leaning in. Ethan turns it over in his hands with care, though he hears nothing shift inside. On the bottom, though, there’s a small picture. Or diagram, rather. It shows a gravestone above the ground that says ‘here’, and a coffin below in the dirt, painted in red. Ethan knits his brow, though it’s not long before he’s on his feet. Here above ground, and coffin below. Underground. The basement. 

\---

His new birthday puzzle is far more elaborate than the first one Ethan saw. Less bloody, certainly, but with enough set pieces to keep it interesting. Or at least to keep Ethan uncomfortable and on edge. 

In the basement, placed on the center of Lucas’s worktable is a stroboscope with a red bow on top. Missing a bulb and cable, though, of course. Beside it is what Ethan later decides is the worst part of the puzzle: a clunky Rubix cube. Made entirely of metal, of course, with a mercury switch inside it so if Ethan tilts it just a hair too much, it gives him a healthy jolt. It’s only a 2x2, mercifully, and when it falls apart once solved he’s granted a key. A key which goes to a very long box that Ethan cannot see inside once he removes the circular top. Just large enough for him to fit his arm down, though. The faux fur that lines it makes him shiver, and he can just barely reach the slip of paper tucked at the opposite end. Pulling his arm out too harshly at first makes him cry out, and he realizes there are nails in the thing, bent so they only snag on the way out. It takes him about 5 minutes to wiggle his way out without drawing blood. 

The puzzle proceeds in a similar fashion to the first piece: this gives you this, leads to this, gives you that, until he’s collected his bulb and cable. The ceiling fan on the porch is his first guess, and he turns out to be right. Pointing the stroboscope at it, it appears to still and Ethan can finally make out the combination, scrawled on one of the fan’s blades. ‘LOSER’. He rolls his eyes. 

Lucas trails him as he solves it, smiling broadly at the beginning, but steadily growing more somber as Ethan progresses. He does huff a little laugh when Ethan sees the combination is still ‘LOSER’, but it’s not his usual howl and cackle by far. Coming back to the living room he looks downright pissed, and Ethan hesitates to enter in the code. 

“You good?” 

“Mhmm.” 

“...Did I miss something?” He cocks his head to the side, finding it unlikely he could get through a puzzle of Lucas’s design without falling into every trap intended for him. 

“Just open the damn thing so we can be done with this.” Lucas crosses his arms, and Ethan dials the letters. 

There’s nothing inside. Lucas opens his arms again, spreading them and doing some sad jazz hands. “Whoop-di-doo, there we go.” He rests his head in his hand, elbow on his knee. “Funnier in my head, I guess.” 

Ethan can’t help but stare pretty plainly at the other. He’d never been a good multitasker, has to look at Lucas with vacant eyes while he thinks about what the fuck’s been going on today. He was expecting the party. Even without seeing the preparations begin he would know to expect  _ something.  _ Because he needs this, Ethan thinks, letting the knowledge he’s always sort of had actually materialize coherently for the first time, because it’s all about Oliver. And he’d looked pretty happy and amused when Ethan had begun the puzzle, slogging through whatever Lucas saw fit to put him through, but it’s not enough. None of that will ever be enough, because once again Lucas is beholden. It’s just a tease, his green light at the end of the dock. 

“Sorry this was a bummer,” is what he finds himself saying, because frankly he’s a bit of a lightweight, and having some sort of grand, psychoanalytic discussion about why Lucas wants to kill with a beer in his system seems inadvisable. “I uh. Do you want me to get your present?” 

Lucas rolls his eyes, though Ethan has known him long enough to know that means he cares a lot more than he’d like to admit. 

“I’ll get it.” He places the wooden box on the ground, staggering a little as he stands and jogs off to his room. The bag he’s hidden in his closet is pretty plain: blue, with glittery tissue paper fluffing out the top for something festive. He hands it to Lucas, perching nervously on the edge of the couch when Lucas just ogles at it. 

“...It’s heavy.” 

Ethan nods to it. “Because there’s stuff in it.” 

“What stuff?” 

“Open it and find out.” He can feel himself getting hot in the face with Lucas building up the anticipation like he is. It’s going to be a let down if he makes it such a big deal. 

Thankfully, at Ethan’s command, he begins tossing aside extraneous paper, reaching a soft bundle below. He pulls it out gingerly, removing the paper wrapped around it. 

“Oh.” Lucas holds it up, letting the entirety of the fabric unfold. It’s an LCS hoodie. Nothing really grand, but they’d never gotten him another after leaving Louisiana. Ethan doesn’t know if he’s still holding on to the dirty, bloodied up one. In either case, he’s not wearing what was his favorite article of clothing anymore. So. Probably an okay gift, right? 

Judging by the way Lucas runs his thumb over the letters on the breast, yes. 

“There’s two more things, keep going.” 

Lucas looks at him wide-eyed, though he remains silent. Again, he reaches into the bag, pulling out the next part of his present. 

This one Ethan is a little more embarrassed about. It’s a little boxed set of shampoo, conditioner, bodywash, even a little vial of cologne. It’s the scent he uses. The one Lucas sometimes steals and forgets to give back. Probably what all of his clothes smell like. He remembers his Lakers shirt, and prays it’s not too pointed. Lucas doesn’t give him any hints. 

The last gift he has the best feeling about, though he knows to have gotten it by snooping. When they had first gone through his phone to make sure his contacts were clean, Zoe did some extra poking around. Which, Ethan would be quick to point out, he did not take part in. He was simply a bystander looking over her shoulder as she conducted her business. In any case, the fact that he was familiar with the Sewer Gatorz’ music career came to light. Very underground, very obscure, certainly any physical copy was lost to Louisiana. The CD Lucas holds in his hands now, Ethan burned himself. The case, he’d turned into a sort of card since there wasn’t any album art that he could find. It’s sort of joke-y, because otherwise it’d feel too weirdly sentimental. A cake, of course, adorns the middle, and flames lick up the background. Across the top he’s written “‘Fire’ Birthday Mix” and then at the bottom “Happy B-day Lucas”. He’d agonized over adding an exclamation point to it, eventually deciding against. 

“It’s uh. It’s Sewer Gatorz music.” 

Lucas’s head jerks up to face him. “Sewer Gatorz?” 

Ethan nods. “Yeah, I. That’s. You played that song when I was in the barn, and. Y’know, through Zoe I heard about them.” He doesn’t give any details, and leaves out the ‘I know who they are, I know you killed one of them’. It’s why he knows them in the first place, Ethan’s sure, and it’s definitely some weird fascination he’s grown. Or a manifestation of guilt. Something personal he doesn’t want to get into on Lucas’s birthday. 

Lucas nods slowly. “‘Sacrifice’, yeah…” He turns back to the disc, turns it over in his hands. Again, hand written on the back is the tracklist. Maybe it’s still pretty dorky and sappy, despite Ethan’s best efforts. 

Ethan’s opening his mouth, ready to monologue out some excuse when Lucas sniffles. 

“Ethan, I dunno what the fuck is up with you and this place, but  _ damn _ .” He digs the heel of his hand into his eye socket, like applying pressure to a wound. “What is this, number 3? I keep fuckin’ cryin’ around here, it ain’t right.” 

“Sorry,” is Ethan’s knee-jerk response. It makes Lucas laugh, at least. 

“It is your fault, but it’s fine.” He puts the CD down, unzipping his new jacket and slipping it on. It looks stupidly natural on him. “Thanks for this stuff, though.” 

“It’s your birthday, man, I’ve gotta get you something.” 

Lucas rolls his eyes. “I don’t care about birthdays, Ethan.” He stands, swaying easily on his feet and wandering to the kitchen. “Beer?” 

\---

Zoe invites Ethan out with her, Georgia, some friends that Ethan knows in that distant, secondhand way. 

_ Can I bring Lucas?  _

_ i need to ask georgia if it’s okay / you know how it is  _

He does. Most of the time he’s not sure why he’s not more like Georgia. Sometimes he thinks he should be.  _ I think he needs to get out or something. / He got sorta blasted last night so I guess I’m worried?  _

__ _ someone’s got to be / he’d just starve to death if no one fed him  _

He gets the all clear, and Lucas doesn’t resist as much as he usually would to leaving the house. Even when Ethan asks him to  _ please _ dress nice for our friends. 

Lucas follows his instructions. He takes a shower, which he hasn’t done in a couple of days, puts on Ethan’s favorite plaid. He’s even wearing jeans, which Ethan doesn’t think he’s ever seen. His new hoodie gets thrown in the mix last minute, and it looks a little silly when all the other clothes he’s wearing actually fit him right. The hem of it dangles close to his knees, sleeves all bunched up to keep his hands exposed. It makes him look smaller than he already is; innocent in a way someone like him has no right looking. Ethan smiles when Lucas comes out, ready for a night on the town. 

“You look nice.” 

“Uh huh.” He jams his hands into his pockets. “Where are we going?” 

Ethan shrugs, because he’s never been the kind of person who asked for details like that. “Just out, probably drinks at some point.” 

Lucas seems disappointed in his non-answer, breezes past him to get to the garage. As he passes, Ethan feels the gust his form creates pass across his face. It smells like himself. 

They meet in a parking lot that costs $6.00/hour, in the middle of the city. Los Angeles is about as far away from Dulvey as they could be, culturally speaking. 

Zoe comes bounding up to him when Ethan steps out. She doesn’t hug him, of course. She keeps her arms glued to her sides like she wants to, though, which is as much as Ethan could hope for from her. Smile terse, she gives a nod of greeting. 

“Feels like it’s been a while, huh?” 

“It has been a while.” He lets himself smile freely. Zoe can play her hand close to her chest all she wants, he’s a cards in the open kind of guy. He missed her a lot. She looks over the car to Lucas, tightening her smile even further. 

“You don’t look any older yet.” 

“Yeah, well, you do.” 

She rolls her eyes. Georgia’s caught up to her by then, not as eager to be in range of her girlfriend’s brother. She smiles wide at Ethan, though. 

“Hey,” she gives him a one-armed hug, and he pats her on the back. As they let go, she gives a very Zoe-esque smile over Ethan’s shoulder. “Hey, Lucas.” 

Lucas just purses his lips. 

“Well,” Georgia begins again after a too-long silence. “The other guys can only make it for drinks, so we can fuck around until then.” 

“Sounds good,” Ethan supplies. Georgia nods, slipping her hand into Zoe’s. 

\---

Zoe does look different. She’s let her hair grow out again, though it’s only had enough time to be a fraction of what it was. The glasses have also been abandoned, which Ethan half misses half celebrates. She’d looked adorably dorky in them, but Ethan also loves her classic look. Zoe makes a grossed out face when Ethan brings it up. 

“I looked so dumb in those, are you kiddin’?” 

“Nooo!” Georgia cries out, tugging Zoe in for a peck on the cheek. “You always look too cute to handle.” 

They stop at a bookstore first. Some sort of ma and pa shop made of old wood that groans when you step, and smells perfect in the way used bookstores do. They split up inside, each inspecting their own genre for now. Georgia is constantly circling, coming back around to Zoe and kissing the top of her now fluffy head. For a long time, she’d been Georgia’s Peach. A new nickname is still in the works. 

Upstairs the shop is nonfiction, and Zoe eventually finds herself there just for the curiosity of it. The whole place feels like a miniature world meant for exploring. 

Lucas is there too, which she should be expecting. She hesitates at the top of the stairs because she wasn’t, considering just going right back down, but he turns when he hears her footsteps. He’s got some book on C# in his hands. 

“Hey.” 

“Hi.” She grips the banister. It’d probably send him into a fit if she just turned around, though, so she takes the last step up. “You’re still doin’ code stuff?” 

“Sometimes.” He shelves the book, pulls down another. “How’s shit?”    
“...Fine. I dunno.” 

“Georgia’s kind of a bitch.” 

Zoe frowns. “What’d you expect, another Ethan?” 

Lucas flips a page in lieu of a response. Zoe crosses her arms. “Is that why you’re up here moping, my girlfriend doesn’t like you?” 

“I ain’t mopin’.” 

“Well you’re actin’ stupid.” 

“I  _ ain’t. _ ” He looks up now, glaring at her with eyes that are a ghost of her own. She can’t help but smile. Despite it all, she still loves getting a rise out of her baby brother. 

“If you were nice to her, she might come around.” 

He sticks out his tongue and gags. “No way I’m kissin’ her ass, I don’t give a fuck what she thinks.” 

Her smile disappears again. “Well maybe I do.” 

“She likes you, why does she have to like me?” He shelves that book too, leaning against the case with his shoulder. Zoe wishes he’d pick another out, look away from her again. She flexes her fingers, balling her fists a few times. 

“You’re my brother, it’d--it’d be nice if she didn’t hate my family.” 

He has the gall to laugh at her, rolling his eyes all exaggerated so he knows she sees. “We ain’t hardly a family, Zoe.” 

“The fuck does that mean?” 

He curls his lip at her, exposing the fangs they share. “We’re related but we ain’t a fuckin’ family, Zo’.” He has mercy on her then, going for another book and keeping his nose in it. “You ain’t the biggest fan of me.” 

“Who would be?” She doesn’t mean to say it, but Lucas has a way of drawing the worst out of everyone. Even if he doesn’t want to, apparently, because his knuckles go white. His jaw shifts under his stubble and the thin layer of skin there. Setting hard, teeth undoubtedly clenched. 

“I didn’t--” 

“Oh, don’t even fuckin’ start, Zoe, I--” 

“ _ Lucas _ , listen to me!” She’s gotten closer to him, close enough that she can reach out and snatch the book out of his fingers. His eyes are too pale, dangerously wild. She shows her teeth when she speaks. “You know damn well what I mean! I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ you don’t know.” Doubling down isn’t what she means to be doing, but once it starts coming out of her mouth it feels incredibly right. “Maybe we ain’t much of a family, maybe I do kinda fuckin’ hate you, Lucas, but dammit, you think I wanted that?” Her voice is rising. Dimly, she’s aware of more footsteps behind them. 

“It’d be great to have a brother I could actually love, but instead you’re just a damn brat who can’t stand not gettin’ his way!” She knows she’s yelling way too much, and when a hand settles on her shoulder she knows it's her Georgia. Zoe throws Lucas’s book to the ground, grabbing Georgia by the wrist and pulling her back downstairs. 

Georgia suggests that Lucas and Ethan ‘go on ahead’, which Ethan supposes has something to do with the commotion from upstairs. Lucas looks about as pissed as Zoe does when Ethan holds the door open for him, walks with him a little ways down the street. 

“Where are you going?” He only has to jog a few steps to catch up. 

“Tell me where the bar is.” 

Ethan’s lips come up into something of a pout. “Why?” 

“So I can get a fuckin’ beer, Ethan,  _ god _ .” He gives Ethan one of his ‘you’re the stupidest person alive’ looks before turning back to the sidewalk. 

“Well--wait, wait, hang on.” He steps to the side, blocking Lucas’s path and fully ready to be shoved. He isn’t, but Lucas stares him down something fierce. “Can you tell me what happened at least, I have no idea what’s going on.” 

“Zoe’s a stupid bitch, that’s what’s goin’ on.” 

“Did you have a fight or something?” 

Lucas’s fingers go to the zipper on his jacket, fiddling it latched and zipping up about halfway. “Mr. 200 IQ over here again.” He goes to step around Ethan, stilled instead by a hand on his chest. 

“You shouldn’t drink when you’re upset, I don’t want this to become a thing.” 

“It ain’t ‘becomin’ a thing’.” Lucas’s voice is indignant, like Ethan’s making baseless accusations, but his ears go red and Ethan knows he’s struck a nerve. 

“Alright, well. Let’s just. Cool off for a minute, okay?” 

Lucas’s shoulders slouch, knees bending so he looks like a child throwing a minor fit. “I am cooled off, I’m fine.” 

“For Zoe’s sake, then, walk with me for a sec.” He extends his hand for a second, awkwardly pocketing again when he realizes what he’s doing, wondering why he did it at all. That’s a good enough compromise, though, because after scanning over his face, Lucas begins to walk again, at a much more reasonable pace. Ethan stays by his side, listening to their in-sync footsteps echoing off the buildings around them. 

“You wanna talk about it?” 

Lucas’s frown is exaggerated. “It’s just what you think it is, I don’t got nothin’ to say.” 

As they reach the end of the road, they get up to the top of a hill as well. The sun is almost set now, the streetlights along their road beginning to blink on. Further out, the actual city takes up the horizon. All tall buildings and roads, yellow and red lights to match the sunset. 

“You’ve never actually been in the city yet.” 

“Don’t think I’d much care for it.” 

Ethan looks to his left, to Lucas in his jacket and jeans and cologne that makes him smell like Ethan. He’s got a funny bump to his nose that’s always so prominent in profile. And especially now, in the stark orange light of the sun directly behind them. 

“You might change your mind,” he turns back to the city ahead. “Things grow on you.” 

“Not on me.” 

“Well, good for you, then.” 

That gets a smirk. Ethan’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he fishes it out. Georgia texted him a couple times. 

_ Hey / Tom and Alex are here if you want to meet us / Srry about that :-(  _

__ His nails tap across the screen.  _ Not your fault, Dulvey stuff. / We’ll be there soon  _

__ “You ready to go back?” 

Lucas takes one more deep breath, blows it out slow through his lips. It’s been a while since he smoked. Sorta glad he kicked the habit. He wonders if Zoe is still clean. 

“Sure.” 

Drinks ends up being largely uneventful. Lucas has a beer, Zoe has a gin and tonic. Tom and Alex are cool, Lucas decides, and when they badger him into letting them put their numbers in his phone, he’s not too upset about it. He won’t answer them, of course, but he won’t be too put off when they text him for a couple of weeks. Ethan stays dry for the night, eventually excusing himself and Lucas because he’s got work in the morning. Zoe lets him hug her, and Lucas knows Georgia must be driving. 

It’s the drive home that ends up being Lucas’s favorite part of the night. Just quiet in the car, mostly dark until they drive under a street lamp and there’s that big flash of tangerine. Ethan’s blonde hair always looks funny in it, though it does soften his features in a way that makes Lucas’s chest clench too much. He turns his face away, burying his nose into the shoulder of his own hoodie. He wishes he wore the Lakers shirt. 

Ethan kicks his shoes off once they’re through the front door, palming at his eyes and almost falling over. 

“I feel old being so tired this early.” 

“You’re gettin’ up there, buddy.” Lucas leans on the wall, watching the other struggle out of his silly loafers. 

“Thanks,” Ethan goes to untuck his shirt. “I’m turning in so.” A salute. “G’night.” 

Lucas returns the motion, watching as Ethan slinks off to his own room. 

He’d showered before they left, but being in a crowded bar’s got him feeling grimey all over again. Not that  _ he _ minds it too much, but Ethan is picky...And it’s a pretty solid excuse to beat off so he’ll take it. His hair is freshly shampooed and the steam makes the perfume of it overwhelming. He tightens his fist, wrings himself out. 

The Lakers shirt is tonight’s pajamas, he decides, pulling it leisurely over his head. Lakers shirt and boxers, and he curls up against cotton sheets, under the fuzzy green blanket that’s become his. Sleep’s never been something he’s good at. He lies awake for a long time instead, running his thumb over the worn cotton shirt with his eyes closed. It’s soothing, at the very least. Without meaning too, Lucas makes a small noise in the back of his throat. A little hum, soft and in approval. 

Sleep must come to him at some point, though he doesn’t remember it happening. He’s still carrying out his ministrations over the shirt when the bed dips next to him. Ethan’s hand covers his, much larger than his own. 

“Hey,” his voice comes out soft and low. “Lucas?” 

“It’s me, yeah.” He lifts his eyes to see Ethan smiling down at him. His chest clenches up again. 

“You gotta scoot, c’mon.” 

Lucas does as he’s told, surprised to find that they’re in his childhood room, sharing a bed much too small for even just one of them. Dream Ethan snuggles up that much closer to him, a hand against his chest and another on his hip. 

“Why are you so nervous?” 

“I’m not,” he says, because he isn’t. He feels more at peace now than he has in a very long time. Dream Ethan shakes his head. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a pretty graphic description of a dead animal in this chapter (from "The squirrel is very dead" to the sentence that ends with "passenger door") 
> 
> And of course thanks to everyone leaving kudos and comments! This is way more reaction than I was expecting so it means a lot ghdfjk...Hope you enjoy this installment of my bullshit!

The basement of Ethan’s home is Lucas’s most and least favorite part of the house, and often for the same reasons either way. His bedroom is a small reprieve, but the basement is truly a lair of his own. Dark, cool, and musty smelling of course. And like Ethan had warned him of, it’s unfinished: The ceiling has all the rafters exposed, the floor is plain concrete, all just the barest bones of a room. It always reminds Lucas of home. Visible pipes, exposed lath. Whether or not that’s a pro or a con depends on his mood. 

Something consistently pleasing about the basement is that he can hear when Ethan comes home through the floor. Ethan’s always wearing nice shoes with firm soles that clunk on the hardwood above, echoing through the layers down to him. Part of Lucas always gets a little thrill out of spying from below; he’ll listen to the footsteps and map Ethan’s path in his head. In the front door, to the kitchen, to the bedroom, to the living room. He could probably psychoanalyze his preoccupation with this particular act of voyeurism to Hell and back. Involved, but impactless, observing small, intimate things getting him figuratively close to another man and he’s fulfilling some base, psychological urge. Something like that. Whatever. 

Ethan calls to him from upstairs, and he yells ‘Just a second’ back. Ascending the stairs reminds him of home too. They groan like an old house in heavy wind. 

Ethan’s standing in the kitchen when Lucas peeks his head out of the basement, putting groceries away. His brows are pulled together, mouth set in more of a frown than is usual for him.

“Hey, are you busy?” 

“Not anymore.”

“Okay, well.” He points to the laundry room. “Can you move the laundry into the dryer, I have a phone conference in, like. Five minutes and I don’t want that stuff sitting any more than it needs to.” 

Almost on cue, his phone starts ringing from his pocket, and he throws his hands in the air before fishing it out to answer. Lucas notes his tone shift. The cadence and lilt of his voice, how different it is from his usual Ethan: higher, more enunciation when he greets someone who must be a superior on the other end of the line. 

In the laundry room, the subtle detergent component of Ethan’s scent is a nostril-burning overwhelming. He keeps all the cleaning supplies in here, bleach and soaps of various kinds, disinfectants. All the chemicals make Lucas a little dizzy. Part of his brain still catalogues everything like he’d made a habit of doing (several bombs worth of shit). 

The dryer ends up having clothes in it from the last load, so Lucas sets aside a basket for the assortment of t-shirts and pajama bottoms it holds. A mix of Ethan’s and his own. That same pathetic, lonely part of him that likes listening to footsteps gets a similar satisfaction out of the sight. He holds one of Ethan’s button-ups with both hands. It’s soft, some kind of cotton and it’s all neat with a sharp edge on the collar because Ethan irons them regularly. He was just that kind of guy. Lucas puts it in the basket with one of his new sweatshirts that has a stain on it already. 

After loading the dryer back up again and starting the cycle, Lucas goes ahead and hangs up the clean clothes in the basket. His own first, folding his pants for the dresser, hanging his shirts in the closet, shoving all his socks in a drawer together in a heap. He takes more care with Ethan’s, because Ethan has a system. Some pants are hung up (his dress pants he wears to work) while some are folded (mostly jeans), and he has all his socks in the proper pairs. Just that kind of guy. 

In a lot of ways, upstairs reminds Lucas of Dulvey too, if only because of how opposite it is from what he’s known. Even before Evie, they’d never had much money to keep the house up with. Nothing was ever as clean and pristine as Ethan likes to keep his home. His closet feels almost symbolic, somehow. The organization, the cleanliness, always the smell of soap and newness. Lucas paws through the clothes on the hangers, grabbing a t-shirt off of one and pressing it to his face. The Lakers shirt that’s still in his closet doesn’t smell quite right anymore, and knowing Ethan’s noticed makes him hesitant to switch it out for a new one. All the perfumes are right, of course. The same Tide detergent, Downy dryer sheets, the same shampoo and conditioner and even the ambient smell of the house is there. It’s sort of sickening to know the part of all that he’s missing so sorely is just Ethan. Sickening, strange, unnatural and animalistic in the same breath. 

Lucas fishes around the basket of clothes, finding the match to the sock he holds in his right hand and lays them down together, leaving Ethan’s stark white closet and its immaculate paint job. 

Ethan’s phone call goes on for a while, so Lucas eats alone. The decision as to what to eat is mostly a practical one. There’s a box of Kraft mac and cheese in the cabinet, which he can make pretty quickly, so Kraft mac and cheese it is. He mixes in the neon orange dust, milk, and butter with the noodles, lugging the entire pot into his room to eat it there. It’s bland, warm, and comforting in a dreary way. He eats about half of it before the rest finds a home on the floor next to his bed. His room is newly dish-free on account of it being a Friday; a fresh mess seems in order. While he’s placing the pot on the ground, he feels around under the bed for his cellphone, dragging it out by the headphones which he presses into his ears. Sometimes he likes to just lay still like this. Right in the middle of the bed with his body straight across the sheets and his arms folded across his chest, watching the ceiling with music on shuffle. Never in the dark, though. Always with the lights on. He almost doesn’t notice when Ethan raps on the door, opening it enough to peek inside. 

“Lucas?” 

He sits up, holding one of the earbuds away from his face now. “Huh.” 

“Did you hang up the clean clothes?” 

Lucas’s expression turns to a scowl. “What, I put somethin’ in the wrong place?” 

Ethan shakes his head. “No, no,” (he did). “I just. Was coming to say thanks, I appreciate it.” 

Without unknitting his brow, Lucas’s expression somehow softens. “Uh huh.” 

“...That’s all.” 

“M’kay.” 

Ethan still stands there for a couple seconds longer than he needs to, grasping the doorframe for no real reason other than to feel the woodgrain. Grounding techniques are apparently necessary. “Alright. G’night,” Ethan gives a half-wave with the free hand, sliding the other down the wood as he turns to leave. 

“Wait.” Lucas barks it out like an order he’s used to giving. Ethan can feel his knuckles go white when it makes his grip tighten. The tremble of it in his forearm, the strain of tendons. He looks over his shoulder.

Lucas is leaning forward on the bed now. Something about his posture is always demanding, whether it be in the way he leans over and gets too close or in his open body language that so clearly communicates when he wants to be listened to. There’s always some implicit request. 

To it, Ethan tilts his head in acquiescence. “Hm?”

Lucas swallows. The bob of his Adam’s apple is still almost painful to watch. Despite the change in diet, he hasn’t put on any weight the way Ethan was expecting. 

“What’d you eat?” 

It’s not the question Lucas had intended to ask, if the pause he takes is any indication. As if to confirm that, his face doesn’t relax when Ethan tells him leftovers. Always some implicit request. Ethan faces him more front on, leaning his weight against the frame now. 

“What’re you listening to?” 

Lucas looks down to his phone like he doesn’t know. “Tom Waits.” 

Ethan nods, pursing his lips and thinking. What he wants to ask is if Lucas is okay, but that’s about the last thing he should be asking if he wants to get his answer. He nods to the floor. 

“You had some mac ‘n’ cheese.” 

Again, Lucas looks down to it. “Uh huh.” 

Maybe he’s not being deliberately obtuse, but Ethan finds that highly unlikely. It’d be easier if Ethan could just count on him to be open, to ask for what he needs because Ethan is sure he’d be happy to give it, whatever it is. He wishes he could say things like that to either Baker. Even Zoe had been that way: quiet, sheepish about physical needs like food and water, let alone something as antithetical to classic, American individualism as emotional needs. It’s something about the way they were raised, Ethan guesses. He knows they have an army dad. He’d like to think he can represent something different. 

“Hey.” He holds his voice firm, and Lucas looks up through blond lashes. “Let me know if I can do anything, alright?” Not ‘if you need’; he tries to pick his words carefully. “And thanks for helping with laundry.” Almost an I.O.U. Close enough, he hopes, and not on the nose enough to scare him off. 

Lucas just keeps his expression blank. “You said goodnight like, uh. Five minutes ago, you gonna go to bed or what?” 

Well, no one can say he didn’t try. “Yeah.” He pats the doorframe one last time. “‘Night.” 

\---

Weekends at home are nice. Especially when Ethan has had a busy week. If Ethan’s tuckered himself out at work, the both of them are content to sleep late on Saturday and lounge around the house in pajamas just like Lucas prefers. When he wakes up, it’s around noon. Swinging his feet off the edge of the bed, Lucas notices the pot from last night’s dinner is gone. He shuffles out of bed, plodding out to the living room where Ethan’s already situated himself. 

“You come into my room?” 

Ethan lets his head fall back lazily. Both of them look like slobs, but it’s only jarring on Ethan. He’s wearing some weird, loose, cotton shorts and a shirt that has a hole in the sleeve. Lucas’s ill-fitting clothes are par for the course. 

“Yeah, why?” 

“Coulda waited for me to wake up, you been creepin’ in on me.” 

“That’s how you get bugs, Lucas.” 

Lucas just stares at him.

“…Sorry.” He turns his attention back to the television. “Don’t keep food in the room, though.” 

It’s a well-received criticism--makes Lucas laugh a little as he continues his way to the kitchen. When he comes back he’s got a spoon of peanut butter in his hand. He eats it like a lollipop once he sits on the other end of the couch. 

Sometimes in the morning, Ethan thinks Lucas still looks dead. His eyes will be glassed over with sleep, and their pale color--along with his shambling, ambling movements--doesn’t do anything to dissuade the illusion.

But perhaps Ethan wouldn’t think that if he hadn’t seen the man as a corpse before. Ethan just knows what to look for, can pick out all the little things unfairly. Lucas _does_ look a lot better now than he once did--his skin isn’t dangerously close to translucent anymore and his hair is closer to dirty blonde than the dead straw it had been…So even when he looks a little dead, there’s still something Ethan finds attractive about the guy. Maybe even _because_ of that. He’s all lithe and ghostly and maybe it makes him a bit ethereal in a strange way. 

Then again, he’s describing a man guilty of torture, murder, black market bioweapons research, and attempted murder of Ethan’s own person, so. 

“You holding up okay?” 

Lucas turns his attention away from the peanut butter spoon. “I feel like we just had this conversation last night, Ethan.” 

“I didn’t ask if you were holding up, I _told_ you if you needed anything, I’m here.” 

“But you agree.” 

Ethan shrugs, cowering back into himself a bit. “I guess. I dunno.” 

“You guess or you don’t know, you can’t do both.” 

“I guess.” 

Lucas licks a glob of peanut butter from his spoon. “So what’re we doin’ going over this again?” 

“You didn’t really acknowledge what I said either time I did it.” 

That earns him a coquettish tilt of the head from Lucas, along with a raise of the eyebrows. “Touché. Is that how we’re gonna play it?” Ethan rolls his eyes and puts his gaze back on the TV. “It’s not a game, I’m just worried about you.” A pause. “Sue me for caring, I guess.” Another pause, and he’s really intent on leaving it there. In vain, as it turns out, and when he turns back to face Lucas he’s surprised to see he’s still being looked at. 

Lucas seems bothered at having his viewing session interrupted. “What?” 

“I mean it, seriously.” 

“Why in the Hell would I not be fine?” 

Ethan can’t help but scoff. “Um. I don’t know, maybe because. You’ve had your entire life upheaved pretty much. Maybe that makes me think ‘gee, I should check in on the guy and make sure he’s not totally miserable’.” 

That same scowl from last night returns. “Well ‘m fine.” 

“You are?” 

“You think you know better ‘n I do about how _I_ am?” 

“I think I know you well enough to tell that you’re lying.” Lucas opens his mouth to retort. 

“But--” Ethan cuts him off before he can begin. “But. Look, I’m not saying any of this to be rude, and I know it might sound like I am but. I mean. Six months into this and we haven’t really. Talked about the situation at all, beyond--” he bites his lip. “I mean. You’ve told me you miss. Killing people, which…” He laughs now, in spite of himself. “Which for some reason I’m refusing to take at face value, so.” (For some reason--like he couldn’t sit here and list them all out one by one). 

“...Do I need a chaise longue for this, Ethan?” 

Ethan’s puppy eyes do wonders for the pout he takes on. Unfortunately, Lucas knows it’s entirely unintentional. “I just want to actually talk.” 

Lucas sits up at that, shuffling on the cushions so they’re truly face to face and placing his hands on his knees. Ethan huffs out through his nostrils. 

“Please don’t make this a joke, I mean it.” 

“I’m listenin’, go ahead, Dr. Winters.” 

“I’m serious!” Halfway aware of his voice pitching up in indignation, Ethan cringes inwardly. “I. I mean, you joke about it a little, but I know you still don’t. Love being forced into this, and I guess. That worries me a lot to think that you’re unhappy with this... I just get to thinking about if you want to get out of here for real it’d be hard because LA is expensive, and. Y’know, I don’t want to be keeping you captive, I could drive you back out West, down South. Somewhere it’d be easier maybe…” He holds his hands up mid-gesticulation, face flushing as he drops them back to his lap. 

“Wow, that. Wasn’t at all what I was trying to say.” 

He turns his eyes back up to Lucas’s, surprised to find anger there. 

“You wanna dump me down in Alabama?” 

“No! Or--” Again, his hands have flown up, reaching out to the man glowering at him from the other side of the couch. He wills them down to his lap, wills his voice to a regular octave. “If. _You_ wanted to be done with this, I don’t want to be in the way, but I don’t _actively_ want you gone.” 

Lucas rolls his eyes, settling back into the couch and turning a notch away. 

“That’s not what I was trying to bring up, I don’t know why I said that.” Ethan vies, trying to save the ember of a real discussion that’s currently having water dumped on it. “Can we back up?” 

“Sounds like you’ve got more to say ‘bout how things are than I do.” 

His heart is hammering in his throat. He tries to swallow it down before he speaks, lest it be audible through his teeth. “I was just trying to give you a platform.” He shifts too, facing the TV as Lucas has done. “I don’t really expect you to just come out and announce anything.” 

The silence Ethan leaves is heavy like humidity, conjures ghosts of insects crawling across slick, salty skin. It’s quiet enough that he can hear the reeds rustle, the croak of a frog in the bayou. 

“This is better ‘n home, if that’s what you wanna hear.” 

Lucas’s voice doesn’t make him jump like it used to. Ethan inclines his head. “I don’t _want_ to hear anything, I’m just asking.” 

The expression on the Baker son’s face only further sours as he rests his head in his hand. 

“... _Are_ you happy here?” 

There’s another weighted silence as Lucas actually considers the question, told through the furrowing of his brow and the set of his mouth. Sometimes, yeah. Definitely, undoubtedly. Those moments are bright pin pricks on his brain: holding Ethan’s homemade CD, falling asleep on sheets that aren’t his own, a ride home under streetlamps. They’re all quiet moments, he finds, and he’s never alone during them. Maybe that’s precisely the problem.

When he thinks to the frustrating parts, he can brainstorm up a list of many things. The period of no privacy on the living room floor, the rules that govern his basement activities. But the lowest point, he decides, is Ethan’s business trip. Being left alone with another Baker in a house that was starting to smell, spending the days waiting for another argument…He wishes Zoe wasn’t so much like their dad. She was always much more of a physical fighter than Lucas could ever be. The old man and Zoe had broken his nose before...But Lucas is the one who drinks, who raises his voice first, _always_. He’s reminded of the night after his birthday, standing on the sidewalk with Ethan being talked out of another boozed-up evening. 

“Yeah.” 

Ethan’s still looking at him--has been the whole time, but his eyes clearly come back into focus when Lucas finally responds. “Yes?” 

“Yeah, I’m happy here.” 

Winters bats his eyelashes a couple times before a hesitant smile comes over him. “Okay. Thank you, that’s all I needed to hear.” Lucas just grunts, jutting out his bottom lip in a nonchalant way as he reclines. 

It’s for naught when Ethan’s hand covers his own boney one. He keeps the same rigid expression, but he can feel every muscle tense and knows the effect is lost. Risking a glance, he catches Ethan’s gaze and gets a little smile. It’s all for the sake of reassurance--he’s well aware of that--but it doesn’t much help to stop the warmth in the tips of his ears. 

\---

_zoe / i KNOW ur awake so dont pretend ur asleep / ZOE!! / respond now and dont be a bitch about it kay?????_

_what do you want dick?_

_hey fuckhead / do i remind you of dad_

The sound of his own ringtone in the dead of night makes Lucas jolt, quickly swiping the little green icon before it wakes up Ethan. 

“What the hell, you’re gonna answer a text with a call?” 

“I’m refusin’ to have that kind of conversation over text.” 

Probably a smart move, but that doesn’t make Lucas hate it any less. “You ain’t wakin’ Georgia up?” 

“I’m not in our room.” 

“So you share a bed now right?” 

“Are we gonna talk about what you brought up or do you really wanna weasel out of the topic _you_ picked?” 

Lucas makes a face at the ceiling before rolling onto his side. He doesn’t dignify the statement with a response; Zoe continues, nonplussed. 

“Why on Earth are you askin’ me if I think you’re like Daddy?” 

“Dunno.” He tucks his arm underneath his head, propping himself out of the pillow that’s in sore need of fluffing. “Just am.” 

Zoe sighs into the receiver. Her breath sounds like static. “No, Lucas, you don’t remind me of Daddy.” 

It’s not much of a comfort. Her tone is far too begrudging. It just sounds like a script and it makes his stomach hot like he hasn’t eaten in days.

“You remind me of dad.” 

Lucas relishes in the stiff, offended pause that makes her give, can feel his heart rate pick up and a smile spreading on his lips. Just a little ghost of _that_ rush. 

“Yeah, well, sometimes you remind me of Mama.” He can hear her tight jaw, the way she’s hissing it through her fanged teeth, and he sits up now. He’ll give that his full attention. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, ‘cause you do shit like this.” 

“Whatcha mean?” 

She must be able to hear his own expression because she sighs again, huffier this time. “You’re a damn son of a bitch, Lucas, why’re we talkin’ about this?” 

His shoulders slacken. Defused it, fuckin’ bitch. “Why’s it so important to you, I just asked a question.” 

“It’s a weird question to be askin’ for no reason.” She hops down from the kitchen counter she’d been perched on to take the call, opting instead for a roaming of the halls. It’s smaller than Ethan’s home--meant for one person instead of a husband and wife--but Zoe enjoys the coziness of it. “You been readin’ ‘bout it? I try not to do that.” 

“I ain’t fuckin’ readin’ about it, me ‘n Ethan just been talkin’ this mornin’.” 

Her eyebrows raise, mouth quirking in a small expression of surprise. “He said somethin’ that bothered you?” 

“ _No_ , he didn’t say nothin’, I was just--” thinking on my own. Worrying my ass off for damn good reason, stewing in anxiety since I got the thought into my head. “We just talked, and I’ve been thinkin’.” 

“Well, I told you you don’t remind me of Daddy, does that make you feel better.” 

Lucas bites at his cheek. “But I remind you of Ma?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“In a bad way?” 

She’s entirely ready to say it, but the word gets caught in her stomach. It makes her lurch, makes her mouth taste bitter and acrid. “...Yeah.” 

Lucas sounds like he’s stuck with the same flavor. “Why do I remind you of her?” 

“’Cause you do stuff like this.” She swallows it down now, letting her brows come together again and begins to pace a little faster. “You come here lookin’ for somethin’ but you don’t tell me what ‘n then you get angry when I ain’t givin’ it to you....And you sulk. You ain’t never been the type to tell anyone how you feel you just mope around for attention; I fuckin’ hated it when she did that.” She’s talking more about their mother now, which makes it a little easier. Her stomach is still trying to wring itself to pieces, but at least the thoughts let themselves be vocalized. 

Lucas can only sit stone still, eyes staring ahead but not really looking, because it sounds too much like what Ethan already said. “...Know what you mean. ‘Bout Ma.” 

Zoe stops her walking, pressing her back against the nearest wall instead. “What about me?” 

“Hm?” 

“Why am I like Daddy?” 

Oh. Lucas swallows. His throat is already constricting just thinking about it. “...Remember when you told us you was movin’?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Shit like that.” He scrunches his nose, searching for the right words. “You--you uh. Just. I mean, I knew you already told me ‘bout it so I didn’t care, but. You did it that way ‘cause--For. Just your own sake ‘n that was a dick thing to do to Ethan. You do shit like that ‘n it’s like him.” 

Zoe’s just quiet, digesting it. 

“...And--” Again, his throat tightens up. He clears it hard, hacking a cough as best he can to force the passage open again. “Fightin’. You’re stronger like he was too.” 

Zoe gets his meaning and laughs. “‘Cause I hit you?” And immediately, horror washes over her. “Sorry.”

Lucas scoffs. 

“I am, I--” She grabs at her arm with her free hand, crossing them over her chest and pulling in on herself, suddenly feeling very unsure. “I shouldn’t laugh.” Laughing at it sounds exactly like something Jack would do. 

Lucas doesn’t instantly hang up, which is probably as close to accepting the apology as they’ll get. “You got any other grievances to air?” He asks instead, changing the subject because he’s decidedly done dealing in that wheelhouse. 

Zoe pauses to give the impression that she’s mulling it over. “No, not really.” 

“Alright.” He sighs, reclining back into his pillows. “That’s all I got too.” 

“Okay…” 

“‘Night.” 

“Goodnight, Lucas.” 

Hanging up sends her head reeling. 

It’s not like she hates either of her parents--it’s _far_ from that. Far from hate, but not nearly close enough to love to make it comfortable. There’s resentment, anger, all sorts of petty little shit like that and it’s all swirled in with warm memories of home and family and it just makes her want to be sick. Hating them would just be easier. With hate she could just renounce it all and be done with it. 

But when she thinks about Jack’s hands, she can remember both times in which they whipped across her brother’s face and times they drew the blinds against thunderstorms for her at night. For Marguerite--the warmth of nourishment and being provided for, but. At the same time, there’s coldness. Everything stopped when it came to emotional needs.

Just a couple of parents trying their best to raise their children. And failing, apparently. It makes her equally nauseated to know she can see that in her brother, yet hasn’t in herself until now. 

When Zoe returns to bed, the stir is enough to wake Georgia, who stretches and groans. Zoe shuffles under the blankets with her, finding Georgia’s waist and securing her arms around it. The gesture elicits a giggle. 

“Hey, babe…” The arm Georgia isn’t laying on goes around Zoe as well, and she presses a kiss to her neck. 

“Hey…” Zoe keeps her voice low, rasping in the back of her throat “You know I love you, right?” 

Georgia hums. “Of course I do…” 

“I love you so much.” 

"I love you too, Zoe.” A return kiss is placed on top of Georgia’s head. “What’s goin’ on…?” 

Zoe squeezes tighter. “Just important that you know I care…” 

“I know you do.” Georgia nestles against her girlfriend, sighing into the warmth. “My sweetheart.” 

\---

Lucas gets a job. He announces it in the way Zoe told them she was moving, just in passing, and for a moment Ethan thinks he misheard it. 

“Hm?” 

“At Best Buy.” 

Ethan blinks a few times. “Wait, what?” 

At Best Buy, he repeats. They needed a warehouse guy. 

That part is definitely a relief, because Ethan’s convinced Lucas wouldn’t last five seconds actually face to face with customers. It’s not full time, Lucas explains, and he’s checked Ethan’s route to work—considering the one car remaining between the two of them. They won’t even have to leave early. He just needs the okay to accept. Which Ethan gives him, of course. It’s a couple days a week, and having a schedule and something to do besides disappear into the basement and sleep will be good for Lucas. Maybe he’ll even make friends. Ethan hopes he does. Really, really hopes he does. 

Lucas takes the job, and afterwards Ethan takes him to buy some work clothes. He’s an inventory guy, so he needs some pretty heavy-duty boots, and overalls are recommended. Ethan only sees him in the full uniform on the actual first day, and immediately understands why. The boots make his feet clunky and large, and he’s just swimming in the beige, khaki material. He looks _tiny_ in it all. And obviously knows it, because he glares when Ethan looks at him a second too long. 

“Are we fuckin’ going or what?” 

“Yeah, sorry, of course.” He looks away, grabbing his wallet and keys, trying not to giggle at the _clunk clunk clunk_ of Lucas across the wood floor. 

Driving Lucas to work is what Ethan imagines dropping a kid off for their first day of school is like. Lucas is quiet in the car, quiet as they pull up to the front of the store, looking vaguely perturbed the entire time. Ethan’s almost surprised he doesn’t ask him to park a ways away so no one sees him being dropped off. 

“See you in a couple hours,” Lucas huffs out, lowering himself down out of the passenger seat. He doesn’t meet Ethan’s eye as he maneuvers himself.

“Good luck in there,” Ethan calls and smiles jovially. Lucas flips him off with both hands and tries jogging a few steps, quickly giving up and walking through the automatic door. 

The first day of school analogy is a lot more apt than he first realized, because Ethan spends the first half of his day agonizing like a parent. He sits at his desk, tearing the edges of important documents, brain spinning in circles with too many worries to count. More so for Lucas himself than the people around him, which is somewhat surprising. The worry that Lucas will do something illegal or otherwise harmful is only his fifth. First is the anxiety that Lucas just won’t enjoy it, then that his coworkers won’t take to him--Lucas never let himself be an easy person to like--and then…

It spirals fast, and he’s nauseated by lunch, regarding his ham sandwich like it’s. Well. A specific someone’s home cooking. 

Lucas texts him as he’s finishing off a mini bag of potato chips. It’s not something he does a lot, and Ethan’s heart jumps to his throat before dropping out of his stomach. 

_this is dicks_

_You don’t like it?_

_whatd i just say ????????_

Ethan watches his phone for a while after that, waiting for Lucas to ask to be picked up because he can’t take it anymore, but the text never comes. 

_Alright well / If I make jambalaya would that help?_

_fuck / ethan i think im in love with you_

Ethan’s just glad they’re not face to face at the moment. 

Lucas is moping when Ethan picks him up, glaring at the car as he approaches, shutting the door a little harder than he needs to. When he puts his feet up on the dashboard he gets dusty boot prints all over it.

“We have to stop for groceries for dinner, ‘kay?” Ethan backs out of the parking space, turning the wheel and letting it slide across his palm to center again. 

“Yeah,” Lucas sighs the word out, slipping down in his seat and running a hand over his hair. Ethan can smell the sweat on him and feels a bit of pity. If there was ever time for superhuman strength, lugging cargo seems about it. 

“You wanna talk about it or…?” 

“You can ask after you get some shrimp in me.” 

Lucas waits in the car while Ethan picks up green bell peppers, shrimp, and sausage, but he does lend his fine motor skills to chopping which is about the last thing Ethan’s expecting. He does a good job, though, and it keeps him occupied so he’s not being a hindrance as he might otherwise be. The worst it gets is a brief lecture that _no_ , Ethan cannot cook the rice _while_ he cooks the meats, _because the rice comes last, dumbass._ It extends the cooking time an appreciable amount, but he yields to Lucas’s expertise in this area. 

When it’s done, finally, Ethan spoons them both a healthy pile. Lucas then returns to the pot and immediately adds on until his portion is comically tall. 

“Well, I hope it’s good.” Ethan watches Lucas set his plate down carefully, still causing a small avalanche of rice and chicken. 

“I stopped you from fuckin’ it up, it’ll be decent at least.” He takes a shrimp by the tail, eyeing with mock scrutiny before popping it in his mouth. Ethan can see him running his tongue along the bite, considering its flavor before nodding and biting down with an audible pop. Beyond the sound of food being chewed and utensils clinking, the two of them eat in the silence of a good meal. Somehow, Lucas manages to put away nearly all of the jambalaya he’s served himself. Ethan’s opening his mouth, getting ready to push his luck on getting any answers when Lucas beats him to the punch. 

“I don’t know how you deal with that every day.” 

Ethan flounders with his mouth agape for a moment before folding his hands in his lap. “Hm?” 

“With people,” Lucas spits it out like a swear, taking a bite like he needs to mask the bad taste it leaves. “Everyone is such an ass all the time, and--” He purses his lips, tightening his grip on his fork. 

“And what?” 

“There’s. There’s just this guy, okay?” Lucas sets the silverware down, leaning across the table and vying for Ethan’s full attention. “And he’s supposed to be moving pallets from this truck, and I’m just gettin’ shown around but I see this guy and he’s bein’ told what to do and I understand what he’s supposed to do and even after they fuckin’! Explain it to him five damn times the ass moves one pallet. It’s like, uh--” He splays his hands out, shaking his head and scoffing in disbelief. “Uh, I don’t--I don’t even know what. It’s fuckin’ amazin’ I tell you what.” Ethan can think of a few people he works with that have displayed a similar level of incompetence. 

“Some people are just like that.” 

“It’s annoyin’ as fuck.” He stabs down on a piece of chicken with his knife, wrenching it so the muscle tears apart in strings. 

“How many other people are there with you, though?” 

“I dunno.” Lucas’s frown deepens. He knows where Ethan’s going. 

“I’m just saying. You’ll make a friend or. Find someone you can tolerate at least.” 

“Yeah, but I have to put up with Directionless Dave who needs to be told every 5 seconds what he needs to do.” 

Ethan can only shrug. “That’s life I guess.” 

“Well life sucks ass. Everyone is stupid but us.” 

Ethan lifts his glass. “Cheers to that.” 

Lucas blinks a few times, looking genuinely shocked before letting a smile come across his face, clinking his cup against Ethan’s. “Cheers.” 

\--- 

Lucas surprises Ethan again by sticking with it. Despite coming home from every shift with a lungful of complaints readied on his tongue, he never quits. He gets fired. 

Ethan finds out at his own work when his cell phone starts buzzing. He assumes it’s a mistake when he sees that it’s the hospital, and when he answers he’s fully ready to let them know they must have the wrong number. 

“Is this Ethan Winters?” 

“Sorry, I--...” Wait. “Uh. Yes?” 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Winters, before I say anything please don’t worry. It’s not at all an emergency and everyone is fine.” 

“...Uhhuh.” 

“There’s a Liam Bates here who told us he’s under your care, is that correct?” 

Thank God he’d had the foresight to keep the initials; it saves Ethan from any more awkward confusion. He’s swiftly on his feet, slinging his bag over one shoulder and pulling the soccer mom wedge-the-phone-between-my-cheek-and-shoulder move. “Yes, he lives with me.” 

“Alright. He’s here with a work-related injury and he says he needs you.” 

Ethan nods along like the phrasing doesn’t go straight to his stomach. It feels a lot like losing him at the supermarket all over again. “I’m on my way, can you let him know?” 

“Of course, sir. When you check in, you’ll be taken to his room. Have a nice day.” 

He chokes out a ‘thanks’, tucking himself into the driver’s seat and thanking the Lord that it’s not rush hour yet. 

After getting shown to Lucas’s room, Ethan’s greeted with the pitiful sight of the other with an orange cast around his right arm. He’s in one of those thin, uncomfortable looking hospital beds on top of the sheets, propped up with pillows. He smiles when he sees Ethan’s face. 

“You should see the other guy.” 

“There’s another guy?” 

“Just fuckin’ with you.” He drops his eyes to his plastered-up arm, held in place by a navy blue sling. “I uh. Landed wrong, I suppose.” 

There’s a chair by the head of the bed, and Ethan takes a seat. “You fell?” 

“Off a ladder, ‘n the shit I was moving fell on me too. Bruised me to fuck, ‘s all purple.” He’s only saying it to relay the events, but the way Ethan’s eyes get all caramel-soft is satisfying in its own right. Zoe’s right; he does like attention. 

“You wanna see it?” 

“I want to get you home first, actually, who do I need to talk to?” 

Lucas nods to the door. “I got told by ‘em that law says it’s covered. Just needed a ride.” 

“Aren’t you sort of off the books, though? You don’t have Social Security or anything, you’re pretty undocumented.” 

He crooks his mouth instead of shrugging, which Ethan makes a note of. “I’m just tellin’ you what they told me already.” 

Ethan tracks down a nurse anyway, who explains that Lucas is indeed eligible for worker’s compensation, and for now they need only check out and keep the cast dry. He thanks her profusely, like it’s her decision at all, and hovers around Lucas as they walk down the hall, to the front desk and through the parking lot. When he’s buckling himself in, Lucas does it in this weird, stilted motion that keeps his left shoulder still, requiring a lot of twisting at the waist. 

“What happened to the other arm?” 

“Huh?” 

“Your left arm, you sprain it or something?” 

“No.” 

“...Oh.” 

Best Buy fires him over the phone when they call to work out the insurance claim. Ethan looks into it once they hang up, and while he’s protected for comp, there’s not a lot he can do about this. They’ll cover the bills, but they’re through with Lucas.

He doesn’t seem too broken up over it. Ethan isn’t sure if he can chalk this up to how much he didn’t like his coworkers, or if how tired he is after the whole affair is just acting like numbing gel smeared directly onto his brain. It seems like there are other places sorely in need of a similar treatment; when he goes to sit on the couch it turns into a several minute long task of lowering himself, adjusting pillows and easing into a position that doesn’t make him grimace.

“You really banged yourself up,” Ethan says, hyper-conscious of his tone. Casual, not at all needling or inquisitive like he feels like being.

“It’s just weird that it’s not gone yet.”

That makes Ethan smile. “Sometimes I forget I saw you get your arm lopped off and you had it back later the same day.” Which makes Lucas smile in return.

“Helluva party trick.” 

Showering is more difficult than anticipated, and it brings all the weird modesty Lucas has over the injuries to a head. Together they wrap a few plastic bags over the cast, sealing the deal with several rubber bands. Ethan has to help him out of his shirt too, and he knows he’s gaping at how fucking bruised Lucas is. Not even purple yet, still that glaring, unhealed maroon and carmine red. It’s blooming all over his chest, and Ethan can hardly believe more of him isn’t broken. He’s unbearably tiny under all the fabric. His size makes it way too easy to imagine that he’d shatter like a vase from falling a few feet.

Lucas won’t look him in the eye while he’s shirtless, and it’s hard to tell what aspect of the whole thing has him embarrassed. Ethan’s been scolded over the topic of both Lucas’s physique and his—evidently taboo—tendency to need things like food and water and occasionally help. Probably not either-or, but all of it together is making him exceptionally bashful.

Ethan’s getting ready for his own shower when Lucas comes to him again. He’s dripping wet and holding a towel around his waist, still refusing to make eye contact. 

“I can’t wash my hair.” 

Ethan gives him an incredulous look. “One-handed?” 

Lucas swallows. “Can’t lift my other arm enough.” 

There’s something stupidly endearing about the way neediness gets him so bent out of shape. He has no problem with causing trouble and extra work with malice, but now that he can’t cloth or bathe himself it’s shameful. Ethan nods back out to the bathroom. 

“We can do it in the sink, go sit.” 

There’s a step-ladder that’ll put him at about the right height, which Ethan drags into the bathroom. Lucas moves from the toilet to the step, clutching white-knuckled at his towel.

“You could have put pants on.” Ethan turns on the water to let it run warm, squirts a quarter sized puddle of shampoo into his palm. 

“Shut up.” 

“Tip your forward a bit.” 

Lucas does as he’s told for once, screwing his eyes shut tight. Ethan takes a moment to wonder how exactly he should go about washing someone else’s hair, deciding eventually on lathering both his hands before scrubbing it in. 

He starts taking his time for no reason. Or maybe a lot of reasons. At first, he’s just being thorough, making sure he misses no spot, but. There’s a shift in the expression on Lucas’s face, abandoning the pinched, untrusting look and softening into a new one that makes Ethan slow his hands. Lucas’s eyebrows are still together, still up-ticked slightly and his mouth is still frowning but it’s far less tense. Relaxed, and--Ethan finally finds the word--pleading in a way. And maybe Ethan kind of likes the feeling of Lucas’s hair between his fingers. It’s downy soft and sparse, doesn’t take long for suds to coat all of it, and if Ethan starts lingering then...well, that’s his business. 

He sweeps the pads of his fingers along Lucas’s scalp for as long as he can bear with his heart thrilling the way it is. Once he’s certain it must be audible, he draws his hands back. 

“Okay, under the water.” 

Lucas ducks his head, and this time Ethan tries to make quick work of it. Scrubbing hard, pressing into the flesh for as little as it gives until he feels fat pinched between bone. If Lucas were caught, Ethan wonders, what would they do to him? Something to get information. Something like this. Waterboarding is the only torture method he can think of besides the ones Lucas has invented. 

“Alright, up again.” Lucas complies, and Ethan goes back to his careful work with the conditioner. Circles with his thumbs, wiping a cluster of bubbles from behind Lucas’s ear. Instead of prompting, Ethan just places a hand on the back of his neck, applying enough pressure for him to get the hint and bow back under the stream. Ethan grabs a fresh hand towel once he’s rinsed off well, blotting over his eyes and cheeks, fluffing up the hair now plastered to his head. It’s almost definitely his imagination, but Ethan could swear Lucas leans after his hands when he withdraws. 

“Thanks,” Lucas speaks once it’s been silent for a little too long. His voice croaks out low, and he clears his throat when he hears himself. Grabbing his towel closed, he stands and hobbles back to his room to change. Ethan dries off his hands, trying to push the texture of the towel into the spot of his mind that’s memorized the feeling of soft, thinning hair. 

Once he’s readied himself for bed (teeth brushed, face washed), Ethan goes back to his room as well. Lucas is sitting on the edge of his bed. 

“...Hey.” 

Lucas shifts a little. He’s gotten the bag off his cast, though he hasn’t put the sling back on. He’s also only managed to get into a pair of loose pajama pants, but Ethan can’t fault him for that. “You need help with a shirt?” 

“No.” 

Lucas stares him down after that, and Ethan can recognize that for the challenge it is. It’s probably the closest Lucas has ever gotten to asking for something that’s undoubtedly emotional, which is all he would have to do. It’s not like they haven’t done this before. He’s got to know Ethan doesn’t mind.

He gestures back to the pillows. “Lay down, then, I can fix your pillows once I change.” 

Lucas visibly sighs and tries to flop back onto the mattress. Ethan’s turned around fast enough that he doesn’t see Lucas’s mouth drop open, stomach seizing up as pain sparks across his bruises in bolts. With his eyes closed to steel himself against the residual ache, he eventually lowers himself enough to relax into the stuffing of the pillows. Not too long after, Ethan comes to the side of the bed he’s taken. 

“Do you want more kind of under your back?” 

“Mhmm.” 

Ethan moves them carefully, tucking and wiggling until there’s a good amount of fluff wedged against the small of Lucas’s back. He must somehow know exactly what he’s doing, because Lucas thought he was comfortable enough until Ethan makes everything slide into place. It’s embarrassingly hard to not just outright moan as all the pressure on his spine is released. 

“Oh, that’s--yeah. Perfect. Thank you.” 

Ethan smiles, scoots back to his side and under the blanket, switching off the bedside lamp. “Wake me up if you need to adjust again, okay?” 

“I’m gonna be fuckin’ out in five seconds, I ain’t gonna need more fiddlin’.” 

“Just saying,” Ethan settles into the few remaining pillows, arm tucked behind his head and eyes closed. “I don’t mind being the nurse for a while, you’re pretty fucked.” 

A beat. 

“You gonna change my catheter?” 

“You’re being disgusting. Goodnight.” 

Lucas laughs a quick, barking noise that’s obviously cut off, his next words coming out strained (“G’night”), and Ethan considers it karma.

Lucas doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night, thoroughly fucking exhausted from the day. Ethan manages to be roused instead. Not for any reason he’s able to identify, just a dream ending abruptly, and he opens his eyes to pitch black that he slowly adjusts to. The pillows Lucas is using have kept him propped up to almost sitting. Such that his stomach is about eye-level, and it’s the first thing Ethan sees. _Small_ is all he can think.

Seeing the guy actually be injured is messing with some part of his head for sure. Probably the part that separates him and Georgia, the part that worries when he loses Lucas in Target for two minutes. The part that buys him birthday gifts and cleans up after him and entertains his sadistic robotics while knowing what he’s done. 

He just doesn’t like to have it confirmed in his head that Lucas might be as fragile as he’s worried the man is. It’s not a conversation they’ve had, though it should be. A conversation about the past, including but not limited to murder…Though definitely a murder-centric one. Something about motives. But then again, Ethan’s had a long time to ponder over that by himself, and it’s always the same couple things. All Ethan can think about when he thinks of the killings is the insecurity along with it. It’s a power trip, revenge, a lot of ugly emotions that just make Ethan sad when he thinks of them instead of disgusted. Killing like Lucas has is about the need for control, to feel above something for once in his life because it’s apparently a foreign, liquored-up feeling to him. Sometimes Ethan wonders about the coworkers and the salt mines. A lot of the time he wonders about Jack. He reaches out for the flat of Lucas’s tummy, laying his hand across it and feeling relieved for the warmth that’s there. There’s a bit of a happy trail too, which is somehow equally comforting. Intimate details, small things to focus on and remember and know about Lucas Baker. Ethan closes his eyes, running his thumb along soft skin and hair until he falls asleep again, not waking up again until morning. 

The light through the slated blinds gets him up before the alarm. It’s a Thursday, and despite the fact that lately he’s been taking way more sick days than usual, he’s already considering taking another. He starts stroking with his thumb again, across the patch of fuzz on Lucas’s stomach. In the night he’s apparently nestled a little closer, kept hand stubbornly on the comforting warmth. 

“What’re you doin’ down there?” 

Ethan’s legs kick out when he jolts at the sound before stilling immediately ( _pull away_ and _don’t make a scene_ manifest simultaneously in his mind. Anxiety forces him to take the second path and freeze). 

“...I didn’t know you were up already.” 

“Well good morning.” 

“Yeah.” Ethan’s hand is motionless, but still in place. Anyway. “...We should do something today.” Smooth. He can feel the jump of silent laughter beneath his palm. 

“Like what?” 

“I dunno. Could drive to Pasadena, fuck around for a day.” 

“Ain’t you supposed to be workin’ today?” 

“I was thinking about taking a day off.” 

Lucas scoffs. “Why, ‘cause of this?” There’s a feeble attempt at raising his broken arm, abandoned halfway through. Ethan can feel him seize up from the pain now, tightness in the little muscle that’s there on his abdomen. 

‘No’ is the lie on Ethan’s lips, because he knows it’s what Lucas would want to hear even if it’s not the truth. He realizes in the split second it takes him to open his mouth that that’s not what’s going to come out. Lucas is only asking because he thought it too--because he wants it, has to mock it just for that. Lucas is doing a dance of status-quo. He thinks he knows what he’ll hear back.

“Yeah, because of that,” is what Ethan says instead. 

It does catch him off guard, which Ethan was sort of hoping for: at least a delay in the rebuff probably coming his way. Saying the truth out loud makes the pit of his stomach hot. There’s something dumb and intimate about being so plain. “I’d be too worried if I left, and it’d be nice to do something fun to make up for a shit day,” he continues; he rather likes the feeling it gives him. 

“...What’d you have in mind?” 

Ethan grins, rolling onto his back to see Lucas’s face for reading. It’s sternly neutral. 

“I dunno, there’s a lot of stuff to putz around and do...There’s museums.” It’s a leap, and Lucas, expectedly, wrinkles his nose. “Or we can just park and walk around. Lots of shops, we could get lunch there.” 

Lucas’s nose un-scrunches in contemplation. “...Fine.” 

Ethan smiles fully, sitting up now. “Alright, cool. Let’s, uh. Let’s both get dressed and have breakfast.” He hops down off the mattress, shucking off his t-shirt and going to the closet for one of his more presentable button-ups. Lucas lowers himself slowly all the while. By the time Ethan’s dressed himself for the day, Lucas has padded off to his own room, wormed his way into a pair of jeans and returned with shirt for Ethan to put him in, a wordless request to which Ethan obliges. Lucas bows his head as the fabric exchanges hands, and Ethan slips it over the crown of the other’s head. Getting the cast through the sleeve takes some extra work, but the two already work like gears in a clock together. The fact that Lucas likes his clothes extra baggy helps too. 

Ethan has a piece of toast and coffee while Lucas shoves a packet of Pop Tarts into his cargo pants’ pockets. He’ll get crumbs in the car when he opens them, but Ethan’s becoming a bit of a slob too, and Lucas has been doing a lot of laundry lately, so it’s fine.

Driving isn’t too much of a chore with the late morning traffic. Ethan’s able to find a place to park only a mild hike from the actual road that everything’s on: it’s a couple bucks cheaper to do it that way, and Lucas doesn’t complain about the distance, either. He walks by Ethan’s side with his arm in its sling, looking pitiful with all his trappings in what would be a harrowing way if it weren’t so adorable.

The shopping street’s not busy on the weekday—let alone before lunch, for that matter, and it’s largely just the two of them poking in and out of hole-in-the-wall shops. Shops for t-shirts, comics, an artsy place that Lucas actually buys something at. It’s a punk rock zine type thing. Ethan looks inside it while he pays with the cash Lucas shoved at him, and it’s nothing too obscene. Violence wise, at least. It is a little pornographic, and he knows he’s blushing when he slides five bucks to the pink-haired lady behind the register. Lucas tries to flip through it one-handed as they walk, without much success.

The last place they poke around inside is a short stop. Lucas wants to go inside because, again, it looks sort of punk and alternative, but once they’ve passed the beaded entrance it becomes very obvious this is some kind of leather fetish scene-type store. Ethan rushes out, red all over his face and Lucas follows equally fast, calling him a prude all the way. 

Across the street there’s a lot with a couple food, and they jog from the sex shop over to one that sells tacos. Ethan gets them both soft shells and chicken, and the meal comes with a cup of chips and salsa that they share while sitting on a parking block. Apparently, they’re both hungry after such a small breakfast, because it’s essentially silent as they tuck everything away.

Lucas nods to their left once he’s finished. “What about shaved ice?” 

Ethan cranes his neck to see what Lucas is indicating: a blue truck with a lot of colorful snowballs and fruit on it. The paint job is chipping, but the guy inside looks nice enough.

“Yeah, sure.” Ethan stands, hand on his knee to ease the transition. “What flavor?” 

“Rainbow.” 

“Since when is ‘rainbow’ a flavor?”

“It’s a fuckin’ snow cone, rainbow’s rainbow.” Lucas tosses a ball of foil in Ethan’s direction--too aggressively, and winces. Ethan barks out a laugh.

“Yeah, be careful, dick.” 

Ethan’s piña colada looks sad next to Lucas’s technicolor mess, but makes him just as happy. Lucas balances the cup on his knee to eat one-handed, kicking at the loose asphalt from their perch on the curb stop. Throughout the day it’s become increasingly humid, so the cool ice is a relief. Ethan takes a large spoonful, presses it to the roof of his mouth. The kicking next to him stops, and when Ethan looks over Lucas is sipping the watered-down syrup from his styrofoam dish. 

“So, what’s the tally on Best Buy? Three, right?” 

“Hm?” Lucas licks his lips. They’re stained purple like his tongue. 

“You stuck it out for three weeks with them, I mean.” 

Lucas looks peeved for a moment, but it morphs into a smile before Ethan can say anything. “What, didn’t think I had it in me? Too much of a bum?”  
“No, I mean--” Ethan purses his lips, tips his head. “I mean. I didn’t think it was going to last forever, but. You really saw it through. And you fucking hated it.” 

“Right.” 

Ethan pouts--not getting his point across and not getting read immediately like he wants to be. “I’m saying I’m proud of you or whatever. For doing that.”

Lucas’s eyes go wide before he has time to look away. “Well don’t fuckin’ flatter me, it had to happen sometime.” 

“I guess so.” 

Lucas’s doe-like expression turns quickly to daggers. “...It did suck.” 

“Do you want to complain about Greg some more?” 

“ _No_ ,” Lucas huffs, put off by just the name. “I want to forget it happened, this was a blessin’, actually.” His face somehow falls further when he looks at his neon orange cast. “What about my stuff?”  
“Your stuff?”

“My basement stuff.” 

Ethan’s thought about it. Lucas needs both hands for most of what he gets up to down there. And what he gets up to is largely a private affair, so there’s hesitancy in his voice when Ethan asks: “Are you averse to a lab assistant?” 

“Yeah.” 

It’s immediate and ridiculously blunt, and Ethan laughs again. Loud, surprising himself and Lucas before he can cover his mouth as it overtakes him. Lucas sits there, elbow to elbow with the guy and unable to look away. 

\---

The humidity makes good on its promise, and they’re walking down the street again when the sky tears itself open to pour down. There’s about five seconds to make a decision between trying to jog back to the car or wait it out and keep Lucas’s cast dry. Lucas makes the call, ducking into the nearest store and nearly grabbing Ethan by the elbow to pull him along. His bruise pangs at just the right time to discourage him. Ethan follows anyway. 

The place they end up inside of isn’t all one thing or the other. The back wall is lined with t-shirts--limited amounts of each design because they’re all hand printed by the various artists being featured. There’s shelves and shelves of used and new comics, a couple cases of junk bits and bobs which cost a dollar and are made of plastic. This store is one of the biggest places they’ve seen so far, and Lucas supposes it’s lucky they got stuck here and not the place selling leather masks. Ethan wanders to the back, so Lucas hovers around the comics on the last shelf, sometimes pulling them down to flip through them.

The rain doesn’t let up--gets worse, actually. The sky darkens like night from the clouds, and thunder whips through the air now and again, making Ethan jump every time. Lucas smiles when Ethan jolts as they’re turning to each other. 

“Maybe, uh. We should ask for a bag, I don’t think this is stopping.” 

“You gonna get the shirt?” 

He looks down to the yellow thing in his hands, pink and black ink adorning the front. “Maybe. I dunno if I’d wear it, but the print’s cool.” 

He buys it for the bag when they decide to stop waiting, worried that leaving with a free piece of plastic after loitering for so long would be too much of a dick move. Once Lucas slips the bag over his cast and tucks himself back into the sling, they book it to the car. Lucas is panting by the time they reach it, throws himself inside with way too much force, hissing and swearing under his breath. Ethan plops into the driver’s seat, unphased, of course. Lucas has seen him fare only a little worse through much shittier circumstances. He peels the bag off his cast, doing his best to keep any droplets from pooling and spilling onto his arm. It drips onto his pants instead, and the water’s somehow warmer than the air as it seeps through the khakis. 

\---

Driving home in the rain is nice. His arm is itchy and sore, throbbing to his heartbeat (heartbeat--isn’t it novel even now?), so Lucas doesn't feel much like talking. Ethan seems fine to be left alone and focus on the road. Lucas does just that, reclining in his seat and watching rivulets flow down the window, all steely grey as they reflect the clouds. It’s a pretty serious downpour. Not anything Lucas hasn’t seen before, of course. He’s been witness to a couple hurricanes in his lifetime, and the bayou is merciless while Ethan’s whole world is up on hills. Even a ‘normal’ flood is out of the question already. But Lucas likes the rain, likes the storm clouds and the thunder because it’s nice to just have background noise. And there’ll be no clean-up duty after this, so he can really let himself enjoy it. 

Ethan doesn’t look like he likes storms as much. He’s got a tight grip on the wheel and he glowers at the road through the water his wipers are furiously throwing left and right so he can see what’s two feet in front of them. 

“Ain’t used to the rain?” 

“I just hate driving in a storm like this, you can’t see shit.” 

Lucas tries to wiggle a finger down into his cast to scratch an itch. “Don’t wanna be sayin’ it ‘cause it’s so cliche, buuuut…you’re quite the city boy. Can’t even handle a little rain.” 

“It’s pouring, Lucas.” 

“You ever even driven off the road before?” 

“Yeah, to get to your house, country boy.” 

Lucas does his best Winters pout, giving up on the finger endeavor. “I ain’t sayin’ I’m a country boy, I’m sayin’ you’re stereotypically prissy.” 

“And _I’m_ saying you’re a country boy. You drink beer too much and lived on a farm off the main road. And you say ‘ain’t’ a lot.”

He scrunches his nose, jutting his lip out too far for a pout anymore. “That’s just livin’ down South. I knew country boys, I ain’t no country boy.” 

“Then what’s a country boy?” 

“Country boys are my old man.” 

“And you’re not at all like Jack was?” 

Lucas runs his tongue along his palate, presses his lips in a line. “No, I ain’t like him.” 

Ethan risks a glance. Lucas is already looking back out the window. 

The thunder lets up once they’re almost home, and Ethan is relaxing his grip on the wheel as his house appears on the horizon when a squirrel darts in front of the car. 

“FUCK!” He screams, knuckles going white on the wheel and slams on the brakes, sending Lucas lurching forward and crying out as well. The road’s too wet for it to matter--there’s a definite bump as the car carries on its path before squealing to a stop. Lucas groans. 

“Fuckin’ _hell,_ what the fuck was that?” 

Ethan’s voice is clipped as he speaks. “Squirrel.” 

Lucas hisses through his teeth when he tries to move, clutches at his side when little sparks move through his bruise. “Did we hit it?” 

“Mm.” 

The bruise hurts too much for Lucas to even be able to open his eyes at first. He uses the heel of his hand, pressing into the flesh that’s tender and hot with blood flow to knead out all the jolts until only an ache is left. When he can, he looks to Ethan.

Ethan looks…bothered, at the very least. His elbows are locked and his knuckles are white on the wheel, eyes shut tight like his hands. He’s shaking.

Lucas looks between him and the handle to his own car door. “I got it.” Which he definitely does; dirty work is something he’s used to doing. 

The squirrel is very dead. Stuck the tire, unfortunately, with its poor little belly burst open like an overripe fruit. The whole tire is shining wet, some of it blood and some of it rain, and some it definitely guts. Most of those organs are pink, lots of them stringy, some smeared across the tread like jam, some still fraught with tension as they’ve yet to be pulled entirely out of the abdomen of the animal.

Some chunks—random organs Lucas doesn’t know how to identify but likes the color of—are green. There’s an especially nice one of these lumps hanging from the open stomach of the squirrel: a dark green thing still clinging to a membrane, purple veins running along it. It’s one of the prettier pieces Lucas has seen come out of an animal. Prettier than whatever is coming out of the mouth of the squirrel (brain mash or vomit, he’s not really sure…perhaps both).

Once he’s ogled it for long enough, he takes it by the head with his usable hand and peels the carcass off the tire. It finds a home off the side, not in anyone’s yard but far enough off the road as to not get tracked anywhere else. Crouching down in the humidity and the slick of the rain with blood on his hand for the first time in ages has Lucas feeling a little wistful. He gives the body a mock salute before going back to his still-open passenger door. 

Lucas hops back in the car as careful as a hop can be. He turns to Ethan for help closing the door, hand held up as evidence of his inability to do it himself, but Ethan’s still holding the wheel. His hands remain at ten and two, and his eyes are as tightly shut as before. 

“You good?” Lucas cocks his head, angling to get a better look at the guy’s face. 

Ethan shakes his head. “I--” Another, harsher shake, Adam’s apple bobbing like he’s gagging. “I can… The smell.” 

Lucas rears his head back. The smell—Lucas can’t smell anything. Maybe the faintest tang of meat when he gets his hand up to his nose, but nothing noticeable. The effect, though, that it seems to be having on Ethan looks very real. Pallor has overtaken him, the white of his clenched knuckles indistinguishable from the rest of his skin.

“Uh. You wanna get outta the car then?” 

Ethan nods, hair bouncing with the motion. When he lets go of the steering wheel his sweat tries to stick, and it crackles when his hands lift from the vinyl. He crawls over the center console to Lucas, who has to stumble backwards out of the car so they don’t end up in a pile. He’s backing away further when Ethan shambles into him, and finally he realizes Ethan’s actually trying to get close. Which...he’ll allow, he guesses. The fact that his hand’s still a mess forces him to hold his arm at a bad angle--one that puts tension in the small of his back for some reason--but he gets Ethan into the crook of his elbow with some effort.

“I’m--I’ll uh. Take you inside.” 

Ethan nods again, allows himself to be steered away. 

It’s a longer walk with a man on your arm, and Ethan’s hair is dripping, plastered to his forehead once they’re inside. Lucas takes him to the couch to sit him down, which Ethan does obediently, drinking up being told what to do. 

“Right, uh. Wait here,” Lucas huffs out the order, to which he gets no response. Ethan’s eyes look sorta glassed over in a concerning way, so Lucas tries to make it quick. In the kitchen sink he washes his hands twice, scrubbing between the fingers and digging under the white bit of his nails because that’s how Ethan would want him to do it. The car is still on the side of the road, door ajar and now wet on the passenger-side floor. Once it’s parked in the garage, Lucas lays a dish towel on the puddle. Coming back to the living room, he presses the back and palm of his hand to his nose, sniffing in the smell of fruity soap. Hopefully it’s replaced the one Ethan’s so upset about. 

Ethan waited, like he was told. He’s sitting with his hands in his lap and hair slicked back out of his eyes. The style looks goofy on him. 

“Hey.” 

He looks up, still cloudy yet shiny-eyed but looking at least semi-present mentally. Lucas takes it as an okay to sit down. Ethan sighs, drops his weight into the back of the couch. 

“I feel sick.” 

“You gonna vomit or somethin’?” 

“...No, but I feel like it.” 

He’s got his eyes on the ceiling, a basically copyrighted pout on his lips and his eyebrows drawn together. It’d be cute if he wasn’t having some kind of crisis. “The. The smell was…” 

Lucas has smelled worse. And he knows Ethan’s smelled a lot of those same things, but. Maybe he gets it a little bit. The smell of gumbo when they cooked had him seeing faces that died three years ago, and even if it’s the faintest thing, Lucas knows the smell of blood--the smell of the inside of an animal. Hot metal, like a furnace almost. That’s what all death smells like.

It takes him back too. 

“Ain’t a big deal, car’s in the garage.” 

“Thanks.” 

He’s mumbling, and when Lucas turns to look at him again his eyes are closed. He breathes through his nose, deep, long breaths that he holds for a couple of seconds; the worried look remains stuck on his face. 

Zoe’s done that before, with the breathing. Lucas had seen it. Seen it when he’d first got his wits again, sneaking around the house truly back in control of himself, coming home from the mines in the late afternoon. She’d been on the step of her trailer, sitting in the sun and trying her damndest not to cry. And failing, after a while. He’s seen his Mama do it too, standing in the kitchen over dinner, the old man nursing himself with a beer and casting Zoe and Lucas both sidelong glances because it was a well-known pattern…Like he was any better nine beers into the day. 

Teachers had told him to try it when he was ten and crying over a bloody nose. That fight had been the first and only time he’d landed the first punch, like his Daddy would’ve, so he gets in the most trouble even though Michael started it. He’d refused to try the technique himself. 

It appears to be helping Ethan, though, and once he looks more at ease Lucas puts his functioning arm carefully around his shoulders. He’s not sure if it’ll be well-received as he does it, but as soon as Ethan feels the weight he’s leaning into it, cheek squished against Lucas’s shoulder which. Yeah. That’s pretty alright, actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe they'll kiss eventually.
> 
> 6/18: Fixed the huge indentation, oops ghjfdk


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long u_u But thank you to everyone who's been keeping up! It means the world <3

Sunday afternoon sees the doorbell ringing, which Ethan isn’t expecting and doesn’t know what to make of—especially when he sees the man who’s at his door, because it’s a complete stranger.

The stranger is, at least, a normal looking boy. Cropped hair and a hoodie, probably just turning 20. He smiles when Ethan opens the door.

“Hey, are you Marcus?”

“Um. No, I’m sorry,” Ethan shakes his head, ready to shut the door already. Guy-seeking-Marcus’s face grows only a little concerned, not much deterred.

“You’re his roommate then? You’re Ethan?”

Ah—Ethan’s face lifts with the realization. “Oh. Yes, that’s me, uh…Why are you here for…Marcus?” He does his best to not make the name a question, because he totally knows who Marcus is. Of course.

“His ad, for the repairs.”

Lucas—or Marcus, rather—comes careening down the hall at the last possible second. He skids a little on the hardwood, cotton socks doing him no favors. The guy at the door lights up again.

“You’re my man?”

Lucas nods curtly, extending his good hand and taking a cracked cellphone from this dude, who smiles in turn.

“You’re a true lifesaver…So. Thanks again. Pick it up Monday?”

“Monday,” Lucas nods again, doing his best at customer relations. Ethan’s already giving him a pointed look. The guy seems oblivious to the entire atmosphere his presence has created, his aura screeching young and naïve as he does a hop and turn off of Ethan’s doorstep. Ethan shuts the door for him. Lucas stands in the foyer, phone in hand, looking a bit guilty.

“We need a consistent code name, so I don’t look stupid whenever someone calls you something else.”

Lucas drops his head to one side instead of shrugging. “No traceable alias.”

“Well, tell me beforehand, at least.” He rolls his eyes, leaning on the door. “You put up an ad?”

“Just on Craigslist.”

“To fix phones?”

He shrugs for real this time, beginning to look sheepish again. 

“With a broken arm?”

“The arm happened after the ad,” Lucas points his finger out authoritatively—now listen here. “No one ever took me up ‘til now.”

Ethan sighs. “Okay. Well. How’re you going to get that done by Monday, you haven’t even been in the basement since you fell.”

Lucas’s sheepish expression comes to a head at that; going red in the and casting his gaze to the left. He shifts his weight from left to right, looking vaguely frustrated, which has always been a cute expression on his face. “Figured your lab assistant offer still stood.”

Ethan can feel his eyebrows shoot up in spite of himself. “Oh.” It absolutely does. “I guess?”

“Great.” Lucas turns on his heel, off on his way to the basement door and starts to head down.

“…Oh now?”

“No, next Wednesday, Ethan,” Lucas hollers up the stairs. Ethan takes that as his cue to follow.

The basement is especially cool and stagnant from disuse, but Lucas comes back to it like he’s only been gone a minute or two. His worktable looks like it was abandoned mid-project, the remnants of which he sweeps aside with a brush of his good arm. Ethan pulls up stool, watching dust motes float through the overhead light. Some of them are big, looking like clumped together snowflakes and tickling his nose.

“Have you dusted down here?”

“Not recently,” Lucas replies, which is a non-answer considering the amount of buildup.

Ethan puts his stool next to Lucas, sits on the side of his broken arm, and Lucas puts the phone down on a rubber mat that wasn’t visible under the clutter. Out of a glass jar, Lucas procures a small, thin, metal tool.

“Take the case off the phone and then hold it there, ‘kay?”

Ethan does so, snapping off the pleather case with his thumb. A slip of paper with an address, a polaroid, and a twenty are all pressed flat inside. He places them aside, holds the phone by the longer sides. Lucas jimmies the flat metal between the screen and housing, popping it out and revealing the inner workings.

“So. What’s wrong with it?” Ethan can’t tell just from looking, which could either be a good or very worrying thing. He knows enough about electronics that he feels like he should be able to tell, barring some catastrophic failure of hardware.

“The home button ain’t workin’, n’ the right side of the touchscreen ain’t respondin’.”

Ethan knits his brow. “That sounds like a hard fix.”

“It isn’t, actually.” Lucas gestures with the tip of his metal tool, pointing to the underside of the screen. “I think he just dropped it and knocked this little piece loose, that’s what makes the button click. And I’m just gonna reattach the ribbons to the battery, usually that fixes the screen.”

“What, usually? Like you’ve done this?”

“Did it for a few guys in the warehouse. Hold the screen.”

Ethan does so, holding it at an angle like an open chest so Lucas can screw the home button’s small backing into place again. “I thought you hated them.”

“I could weasel twenty bucks outta them for it.”

“What are you charging this guy?”

“Fifty.”

Ethan scoffs. “For this?”

Lucas only shrugs. “Cheaper than a new phone, he doesn’t need to know it took five minutes.”

“You’re such a con man.”

“If we bought some parts we could really start leeching off some suckers.” Lucas ends the statement with a raise of his eyebrows and quirk of the mouth, like that thought has just occurred to him and he finds it humorous, yet intriguing. He puts the thin tool down, replacing it with tweezers that he holds delicately. “Press down the cables I pull off, they’ll snap in again.”

Ethan does as he’s told, using his pinky finger and understanding the situation a lot better now after that coquettish look. This guy isn’t the first person who’s contacted Lucas for his services. It’s the first job he could do without parts. This is Lucas’s demo reel; a trial run of his underground, unlicensed and possibly vaguely illegal Craigslist repair shop...If Ethan is interested, of course.

It’s cute that Lucas is trying to court him into it, even if Ethan finds it hard to believe he doesn’t know just how willing Ethan is to go along with pretty much anything. As far as crimes go, it’s reassuringly legal by Lucas standards.

Ethan snaps the last ribbon into place. “As long as they’re cheap.”

Lucas buys a lot of parts for his ‘business’. Really, he buys locked phones off of Ebay for $30 because it’s dirt cheap, and he doesn’t need to be able to get into them, anyway. He purchases them, guts them sometimes, uses the housing and screen other times and just replaces the figurative brains. It’s a decent flip operation. At $50-$100 a pop, they start to churn out a pretty decent profit, which Lucas just squats on. Ethan doesn’t care, doesn’t expect a cut even if he does have to help with every job. He likes helping, really. Lucas is good at what he does. He’s got precise hands—not small, but long-fingered and thin in a way that makes them feel small anyway. Sitting with him and watching those spider-leg fingers dance around electronics makes Ethan feel like he’s at a ballet show. Ethan’s own fingers aren’t as delicate. His friends have told him before that he has girly hands, but Lucas has real pianist fingers. It’s like he’s designed for the work he does. It’s also overly fragile like the rest of him, and occasionally Ethan will catch himself sitting there, staring and feeling like his ventricles are collapsing. When that happens, he considers himself fortunate that Lucas only entrusts him with the brainless work.

\---

Going to the hospital again makes Ethan nervous, even though they’ve pulled this off once before.

Well. ‘Pulled it off’ is a strong way to put it when the reality is that they’d ended up there accidently and booked it out as quick as possible. There’s something different about waltzing into the place with a wanted man on his arm, checking in like they’re supposed to be there. Ethan’s pretty near breaking into a cold sweat when the receptionist asks them to take a seat and wait. Lucas just looks happy to be getting the cast off. He complains about it more than he did work when he had a job. Mostly about how itchy it is. They’d been sent home with a note last time, about not sticking anything inside it. But Lucas shoved a lot of rulers and pens down the hole anyway, to scratch at the skin hidden beneath the orange wrap. In the waiting room, there’s nothing long or thin enough to do the job, so as he sits beside Ethan, he starts bouncing his leg.

“Knowin’ I’m gettin’ it off makes it worse.” He paws absently at the plaster, like it’ll make a difference.

“I read you shouldn’t scratch once it comes off, your skin’s gonna be sensitive.”

“You read?”

Ethan’s read a lot in the past few days about what to do and not to do in the next week or so. He shrugs the question off like he doesn’t have a plan laid out in his mind for helping Lucas wash off the dead skin, for making sure he does the recommended stretches. He even bought cocoa butter lotion. Apparently that’s good for the itching.

Ethan’s allowed to follow Lucas into the room with their doctor, a different one than Ethan saw last time. He’s fatter, has a salt and pepper beard and exudes too much paternal energy. A badge on his chest reads ‘Dr. Denniston’. As they walk, he’s rattling off a lot of information which Lucas obviously isn’t listening to. It’s mostly stuff Ethan’s read about already, which makes him glad he did so.

Lucas does ask about the saw they use to break the cast open. The doctor explains that it’s nothing to worry about, that the blade is dull and it’s actually the vibrations that split the plaster apart.

“Oh.” Lucas’s face falls as the doctor powers the device on, slices down the length of Lucas’s arm.

It looks weirder than Ethan was expecting, despite the encyclopedic knowledge he was intent on having about this. The skin Dr. Denniston reveals is covered in indentations, like Lucas had slept on it in a knit sweater, looks wet with the way the hair lays flat and slightly darker. Lucas immediately goes to scratch at a particularly red, flaky patch.

“Ah—try not to scratch, right?” Dr. Denniston wags a finger in Lucas’s direction.

“Oh. Uhhuh.” Lucas presses his lips together, dropping his hand and casting a glance in Ethan’s direction. His eyes ask ‘can you fucking believe this shit?’. Ethan returns that with a sympathetic smile. The doctor takes a hold of Lucas’s wrist

“I’m going to move you a little, you let me know if it hurts.” He cradles Lucas’s elbow, turns his forearm out. It’s bent just a fraction out before Lucas is wincing.

“Where’s that hurt?”

“Just uncomfortable,” Lucas spits out through his teeth.

“Right. So it’s uncomfortable in…?”

“…My elbow.”

The doctor hums. “Okay. And again.” He turns Lucas’s arm back in, to the bent position it’s been held in for the past few months. Lucas’s shoulders slump in relief.

“Can you try lifting?” The doctor releases him, and Lucas raises his arm above his head without much trouble. “Just some tenderness in the elbow, your muscles have been holding that pose for so long.” Denniston nods like that’s normal, which now makes Ethan relax a miniscule amount. He turns to Ethan too as he delivers his next monologue, like he can tell Lucas isn’t so much of a great listener.

Ethan is instructed to make sure Lucas is stretching his elbow, bending and unbending it regularly. He gets a description of the type of pain that’s expected versus the kind they should get back to the hospital about, and Ethan tries to look like he understands the difference. They should expect more swelling, which Ethan has read about, and again Dr. Denniston reminds him not to scratch or rub the skin too hard. Ethan nods and thanks him, shaking hands briefly as they exit before swatting Lucas’s hand away from himself. 

Lucas keeps himself occupied in the car by flexing various muscles. He pulls his fingers down to his palm one by one, watching the way tendons flex beneath his skin, slackening and tightening. Fingers are the easy part. When he tries to bend the arm itself, lift it up from his lap, he digs his nails deep enough to into his palm to leave crescent moons. He must make a noise about it too, because Ethan looks away from the road for a moment.

“You’re sure it’s okay?”

Lucas nods tightly. “Just sore.”

“You’re really sure?”

“ _Yes_ , God, it’s just like. Pins and needles shit.” He tries again, lifting it just a fraction before the sparks make him drop it. It feels like someone’s found his funny bone and decided to take a drill to it. Ethan, predictably, pouts at him.

“Okay, well. Be gentle with it for now. The sling’s still at home if you wanna keep using it.” 

Lucas only grunts like he isn’t touched by the concern.

It’s been a long time since Ethan last washed Lucas’s hair. The bruising had gone down enough for him to be able to reach his own head after a week--not that Ethan only helped that many times. Lucas had let him fret and fuss a while after his range of motion was restored, until the bruise was no longer visible. Ethan had given a half-hearted excuse for it, that Lucas needed to rest as much as possible, and he had been content to let Lucas believe that he was just being a worry-wart, because admitting that the odd, intimate moment was a high to chase would be far more embarrassing.

He wants to chase it now too, of course. And he does do a fair amount of hovering as Lucas wets a washcloth in the sink, passes it gingerly over his skin, but never presses to engage in the act. Frankly, he’s got enough of a good thing being pressed shoulder to shoulder with Lucas in the basement for a couple hours a day. It’d be stupid ask for more. And blatantly unnecessary. So he only watches as Lucas washes swaths of dead skin down the drain, revealing the fresh, pink, hot to the touch newness that’s begun underneath. Ethan does fetch the cocoa butter lotion when Lucas asks for it, and maybe gets something out of watching Lucas apply something he bought.

Lucas remains—for the most part--one-armed for a few more weeks. He does empty handed curls leaning on the kitchen counter, and Ethan gets better and better at using the tiny screwdrivers in the basement. They get a lot of broken screens usually, which isn’t too much of a hassle. Lucas can talk the person into just buying the whole housing more often than not, and they make a pretty penny off that for easy work.

Before bed, occasionally, Ethan will see Lucas walking around with his sling on. His little frame drowned in ratty old PJs that need replacing, at the peak of his grumpiness before imminent sleep can do away with it. It reminds Ethan of other similarly domestic things, like seeing Mia in a face mask and a night gown.

That particular comparison whips through Ethan’s mind almost too fast to dwell on. And even when he does catch it, it withholds the devastation Ethan’s sure is about to wrack him. It settles with weight in his mind, sure, but it lets itself go gently. Like a candy on his tongue; with a sugar shell on the outside, melting away quickly, and leaving him with just a fitting, faint sweetness.

Ethan’s okay with it all, of course. ‘Okay’ is the most negative he can feel about anything involving Lucas anymore. Occasionally that still feels like a moral failing, but nights in the basement make it easier to articulate why--Lucas is smart. Lucas is funny, Lucas has a bad poker face and thinks he’s more stoic than he is. Coming home to a few hours of that in the basement, hunched over a table and helping the guy siphon wads of cash out of people is a routine Ethan gets used to easily, and he welcomes it. Lucas must feel a similar way. If he didn’t, Ethan wouldn’t still be allowed down in the transition days—when Lucas starts being able to lift pitchers and cups. Ethan will show up as long as he’s allowed to.

By the end of a third week being cast-less, Lucas can do it all on his own. In the days leading up to it, Ethan’s offered less and less work in the basement. He’s assigned more holding, more passing of tools and parts until Lucas decides it would be easier to get it himself. This is the routine now, though, and the day after the first time Lucas offers him no work, he still goes to the basement when he comes home. The fourth time he does this, Lucas stares at him coming down the stairs, eyebrows held together and nose wrinkled.

“You comin’ to sit again?”

“Unless you have something for me to do.”

Lucas rolls his eyes, sighs through his nose and swivels on his stool to face the table again. “You know I don’t.”

Ethan hovers on the steps for a minute, not sure if he’s been told to get lost or not. Lucas turns to look over his shoulder, casting a lifeline.

“Sit or git, Ethan, c’mon.”

Ethan goes for the former.

\---

The whole vacation/sick day thing catches up with him. Which he should have been anticipating, because cumulatively, Ethan’s probably taken a month off at this point. Still, that doesn’t stop him from cringing anyway, when another consultation gig gets passed to him in today’s meeting. At least it’s not in bumbfuck Idaho. Ethan’s had enough of bumbfuck places for one lifetime.

Lucas takes the news less gracefully.

“Well you said ‘no’, right?” He plants his hands on his hips, has got his eyebrows knit in an already accusatory way.

“I accepted it, actually.”

Lucas scoffs, throwing his head back and crossing his arms. “What in the Hell’d you do that for, why wouldn’t you say no?”

“It was implied I couldn’t,” Ethan says with a shrug, shuffling past Lucas to the fridge. “I owe it to everyone, anyway. I’ve taken a lot of time off.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Not really, I don’t mind it.”

“You already went on a trip!” Lucas plunks his elbows against the counter, cradling his face in his hands. “You went to Idaho.”

Ethan purses his lips. “I guess I wasn’t expecting another business trip to be such a point of contention.” Which he should have, now that he actually thinks about it. Coming home from Idaho is a moment he thinks about often. That, along with the scant two other times he’s seen Lucas cry. Tears from Lucas make the part of him that likes washing Lucas’s hair for him get all excited, and the other part that hates how breakable he seems can’t fucking stand it. He gets less masochistic pleasure out of it than just maternal concern.

He’d never figured out what that particular Idaho bit had been about, but it’s obviously flaring up again. Whatever it is. (Or maybe that’s bullshit, because each time is undeniably Ethan-related. Because Lucas eats up the attention Ethan’s dying to give him). Ethan runs a paring knife across the cellophane covering the ground beef in his hand.

“How long is it?” Lucas asks, still leaning on the counter.

“Two weeks.”

He groans. “That’s so fuckin’ long, c’mon…”

“It’s not my call, I don’t know what to tell you.”

There’s a clatter and general ruckus as Lucas rights himself. His sneakers squeak on the floor, from spinning, Ethan assumes. He keeps his eyes on the bowl in front of him, folding eggs and breadcrumbs into the meat. Whatever. If Lucas wants to throw another one of his fits, he’s more than welcome to. Ethan likes to comfort him afterwards, anyway, and playing guessing games is the last thing he’s in the mood for.

“Why don’t I come with?”

That gets Ethan looking up. Lucas is leaning by the door, phone is his hands and looking like he hasn’t spoken.

“Well. They’re not going to pay for another person, they don’t even know I live with you.”

“I’m sittin’ on $500.”

Ethan’s too well acquainted with their repair business to not know that amounts to about the entire sum of the profits.

“You’re going to spend it all on a trip to Missouri?”

Lucas shrugs.

“…We’d have to drive.”

“Not opposed to a team effort on that.”

Ethan laughs now, mostly from incredulity at the idea of driving to fucking Missouri, and a little from the fact that Lucas has vocalized something so close to a need. “Alright, I guess we can do that, yeah. You’re not going to have fun, though.”

“’S better than sittin’ on my ass around here. Might as well take my sittin’ ass somewhere else.”

\---

Ethan has a duffle bag that’s big enough for Lucas to hold two weeks of clothes and his sparse collection of toiletries—shampoo, conditioner, toothbrush and toothpaste. And maybe the cologne from the pack Ethan gifted him. He packs it all by rolling his things into a wad and stuffing them in the bag the morning of. Ethan is more meticulous, packing the night before, taking his time with folding and using a special bag for all his product. Hair gel, cologne, body wash, a razor and shaving cream, everything he needs to exact a prim and proper control over his body. Lucas is half surprised that he doesn’t have a list he literally checks off.

That said, he does do a once over in the morning as Lucas slings his duffle over his shoulder. It’s a frenzied affair that Lucas has seen from Ethan before in a now fairly distant past. He packs like he loads a grenade launcher.

Thirty minutes into this ordeal, he’s standing in the bathroom, hands on his hips with a concentrated expression.

“If you forget something you can just buy some when we get there.” Lucas yawns out. Ethan had woken him up before noon.

“You know I’m finicky about my things, it has to be the right stuff.” He surveys the room once more, mumbling under his breath and counting off on his fingers.

“You’re pretty finicky, yeah.”

Ethan smiles at the way that word garbles in Lucas’s accent. “I think I’ve got everything.”

Lucas is already turning to head out before Ethan can finish the thought.

Ethan takes the first leg of the trip upon himself. Lucas is yawning and too bleary eyed for comfort, and looks content to break into some of the road trip chocolate for breakfast. On the way out of the city he pulls his hoodie up, and Ethan’s not sure how awake he is by the time they’ve crossed state lines. By noon, he’s conscious enough to fiddle with the radio. He settles on one of the stations that mostly plays Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, that sort.

“Can we get lunch soon?”

Ethan nods, considering the route displayed on his phone. “We’re headed toward no-man’s land, so dinner might not be happening for a while.”

The next exit has plenty of fast food venues to choose from, and Lucas takes the opportunity to gorge on fries, burgers—plural—and a milkshake. Ethan ends up getting a shake with his six-piece nugget meal too, which melts once it’s halfway gone and forgotten in his cupholder. By 9 PM it’s reached the stage where the froth and liquid separate, and Ethan spares it a sad glance when his tired eyes drift from the road. They’ve indeed reached no-man’s land, somewhere under the Navajo Nation, probably. The road is empty, lined with dry shrubs and surrounded by mountains and other rock formations with names Ethan doesn’t know. It’s a landscape he’s always been fond of, beautiful in the sunset of 8:45, though not much to keep your attention in the dark when you can only see for six feet. And there’s still a ways to go until their stop in Albuquerque.

Lucas stretches for the third time in ten minutes. “Can we stop for a sec, my ass is asleep.”

Ethan manages a laugh. Maybe a quick walk around the car will get him feeling more peppy, at least. “Sure, fine.”

He cranks the wheel to the right, not bothering with the hazards like he might otherwise. No one else is coming down this way that close behind. They’re pretty profoundly alone.

They unbuckle in unison, and Ethan can hear the dried clay crumble and crackle underneath Lucas’s sneakers. He slides out of his seat too, wincing at the flood of blood to his upper thighs and toes. Maybe his ass was kind of asleep too. He pats himself down once he’s fully standing, trying to help his circulation return to normal, or at least just alleviate the uncomfortable tickly sensation in his waking limbs. He leans on the car while he waits for his feet to feel normal, testing incremental weight on them until he can painlessly right himself.

Standing’s helped the numbness, but walking around the car doesn’t help how fried his brain feels. As he comes to the passenger side he trips on the transition from road to natural ground and nearly falls over entirely. He kicks up a red plume of dust as he stumbles, and thinks about how he’ll have to vacuum the car later.

Lucas isn’t walking so much as standing, head cocked back and rested against the car door behind him. Ethan looks up too, greeted with the not entirely foreign sight of the desert stars. LA being what it is, it’s not every day he gets to see any stars at all, but he’s yet to be disappointed by the displays he has caught. Part of him wonders if Dulvey had a similar view—he hadn’t taken the time to notice, if it did. Judging by how Lucas had been staring, Ethan would have to guess not. Humidity, trees, not exactly ideal for star gazing.

The sound of movement to his left makes Ethan jump, jolting him out of thought. Lucas has pushed upright, begun to make his way around the front of the car. Ethan’s paying it no mind until he hears the sound of the car door.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Ethan calls out, jogging to the front in time to see Lucas settle into the driver’s seat.

“My turn to drive, c’mon.” Lucas nods to the passenger side door. “You’re a dead man walkin’. I would know.” He splays his hands out and smiles, jazz-hands-ing at his own joke. Ethan lets his shoulders slump. He feels silly about both options; it’ll be Lucas’s turn to drive all day tomorrow, Ethan can stick it out for three more hours—but is he really going to get in a row over that much time?

“…Only if I pay you back tomorrow.”

“Whatever it takes to get you outta danger of fuckin’. Fallin’ asleep behind the wheel, man.”

Which Ethan would never do, because he absolutely knows his limits. Just because he finds himself waking up almost as soon as he’s sat down doesn’t mean he was about to doze off. He closes his mouth when he’s conscious enough to know it’s hanging open.

“What time is it?”

“It’s been an hour.” There’s a ‘told-you-so’ness in Lucas’s voice that makes Ethan scowl. He passes a hand over his face, trying to get his head working because it definitely isn’t right now. Waking up in the car is disorienting, messing with his sense of—what exactly, Ethan isn’t sure. Just that it leaves him with a lingering sense of wrongness. Lucas starts to pull over.

“You wanna lay in the back?”

Ethan just nods, still half asleep and having a hard time making heads or tails of himself. He’s sitting, that much he’s sure of. Sitting isn’t good for sleeping, and laying down is the best idea he thinks he’s ever heard. He makes it into the back seats, gets himself horizontal across them. He catches Lucas’s eyes as he’s doing so, watching from the front to make sure Ethan gets where he’s going. About a two foot trip, but Ethan’s glad for it anyway.

Ethan wakes up one more time that night before the hotel, not sure how much time has passed, but knowing by the lights they’ve reached another city. Lucas doesn’t see him open his eyes, and Ethan remains quiet, observing from his makeshift bed. Lucas is driving with a look on his face that Ethan’s not exactly seen before, but it’s remarkably similar to his basement face. All focused, just a twinge of concern--protective in a very new way. Over chauffeuring Ethan, apparently, which makes his heart swell. It feels like a blanket to know that such a look is for him. He closes his eyes again at some point.

Lucas’s mind doesn’t really catch up to the fact that they’ve left California until he wakes up in the first hotel. It’s sort of a dumpy place, probably not something Ethan would consider up to snuff for a two week stay, and almost certainly the only place to stop between home and where they’re going. At any rate, Ethan looks glad to be leaving when they check out, and insists on driving until they have lunch. Lucas ends up not eating very much. Maybe it’s all the driving, or the feeling of waking up somehow in between dimensions, but his stomach feels a bit upset. He just asks for fries at the drive through.

The second leg seems shorter. Lucas can’t say if it really is, or just feels that way because he did the driving (one-handed, much to Ethan’s dismay). The landscape changes dramatically at some point too, and somehow Lucas doesn’t even notice the transition. It’s all red and dust and high mountains, then flatness and greenery—plain in more ways than one. There’s people living out here, though, even when the number of shops all dwindle. Signs of life, at least. Every once in a while, there’s a billboard, or a fence, or a farmhouse visible tucked inside the brush. They’re people who probably sound a bit like a he does, drink like he does, probably spend more than $20 a week on smokes, which he used to. He fucking hates these kinds of people.

The hotel they end up at by the time it’s dark is a good deal nicer than the first, much more Ethan’s style. There’s a little bar in the lobby, one of those fake fireplaces and plenty of seating. Ethan slides his driver’s license to the woman checking them in, which she rewards with a couple of room keys.

The elevator is crowded with a number of people also checking in, and a pair of children in swim suits dripping water all over the floor. The kids stink of chlorine, but it’s better than the sweaty, fast food smell of the other people who have been living out of their cars too, which is still faintly smellable over the chemical stench. Lucas always sort of liked harsh, laboratory smells like that. The kids are giggling and talking, while every adult looks to be at their wits end, Ethan included. When they reach their room, number 417, he takes a couple tries to wave the keycard right and unlock the door. Lucas is certain if it took just one more, he’d probably have combusted out of frustration.

“You mind if I shower first?” Ethan asks over his shoulder, rolling his suitcase over to one of the beds, nearer the wall rather than the window.

“Knock yourself out.”

Ethan nods to himself, tipping the suitcase horizontally and draping a pair of pajama pants over his arm, holding his bag of toiletries in his other hand. He takes a long shower, and a while to brush his teeth. When he does finally finish up in the bathroom, a wave of humidity follows him out, hair slicked back and still damp. And shirtless, to Lucas’s dismay—or. No. Because Ethan’s state of dress is something he could never be anything but neutral about. Lucas does notice that, like his face, Ethan’s chest is slightly scarred. A lot of little, faded things, and one large crescent on his stomach, which Lucas recognizes as being from the end of a shovel. So probably a Dad thing. Ethan’s hand moves into his line of sight, laying over the mark and shocking Lucas out of thought. Ethan looks puzzled.

“What?”

“Nothin’.” Lucas sniffs, swiping on his phone. “Just forget you been so beat up.”

Ethan thumbs at the hard line of tissue there. “I think most of them will fade.” A lot have already. There used to be bug bites peppering his stomach, some scratches from splintered wood or overgrown fingernails. The ones on his face are of unknown origin, maybe nicks from bits of rubble and brick flying around.

“Nothing from you,” he tacks on as an afterthought, though the ‘thought’ part of it is dubious, because he’s not sure why. As an expression of gratitude, a tease, a challenge. Fortunately for his dignity, it sounds like Lucas takes it as one of the two latter.

He laughs. “I told you, I’m gonna step up my game.”

Tripwires still aren’t you, Ethan almost snarks out, but bites his tongue in time. Whatever. The FBI profilers can have a field day with that if they want to.

\---

Lucas wakes up earlier than he would like for the third day in a row, and feels pretty pissed about it for about five minutes. At least this time no one’s done it to him on purpose—Ethan’s just flushed the toilet and turned the sink on. Lucas rolls over, too hot at his feet under the way too cushy comforter, and at his ears which are covered by an under stuffed pillow. It is supremely uncomfortable, and eventually he just kicks the sheets off. Ethan comes out of the bathroom, still thinking he’s the only one awake.

He’s gotten dressed. Slacks, loafers, long sleeve button down. His hair is styled differently; Lucas can tell he must’ve brought gel. And he’s wearing a tie, which Lucas doesn’t think he’s ever seen.

“You’re lookin’ special.”

Ethan’s eyes go wide for a moment. “Oh—sorry. I tried to be quiet,” he whispers. The lights are still off, it just feels like the right way to be speaking in the dark.

“It’s fine,” Lucas lowers his voice back, stretching out across the mattress diagonally.

“I was going to write a note, but. I’ll be back around two, probably.”

“I’ll try to be asleep by then.” Lucas closes his eyes again, so he isn’t sure if Ethan smiles or rolls his eyes at that.

His body makes a valiant effort, once he’s cooled down, to get back to sleep. He makes it stay awake instead, wants to listen to the soft sounds of Ethan’s morning routine. It’s mostly over now, but Lucas still takes in the sound of shoes on carpet, of him patting himself down before he leaves. Phone, wallet, car keys, room key. And the door, finally, whose shutting signals the end of Ethan sounds, and ushers Lucas back off.

It’s almost one in the afternoon when he wakes again, comfortably chilly without the shitty hotel bedding. The curtains to the large window on the left side of the room are still drawn, mostly filtering out any daylight except for one beam slipping through the gap.

Lucas rolls out of bed, smacks a switch on the far wall to flood the room with artificial light instead. The shower’s long dried since it’s last use, which feels a little more okay than using it directly after Ethan, so Lucas goes ahead with getting cleaned up and changing. For all its sterility, the hotel feels…different than Ethan’s home. Not dirty, because it certainly isn’t. All told, it must be cleaner, actually. But it feels grimy in an intangible way, such that even using his own toothbrush feels wrong. There’s probably a reason why most haunts are hotels and hospitals. He spits out the foam filling his mouth, washes it down the drain.

By 2:10, Ethan still isn’t back, but he does send a text.

_Friendly people / Eat lunch without me if you haven’t, I’ll be back soon hopefully_

Which Lucas frowns at, because Ethan has the car. He must be thinking the same thing, though, because after a minute he sends his credit card number and CVV.

_Get it delivered to the hotel, on me / You’re welcome_

The way Ethan texts will always make Lucas laugh, he thinks. Who the hell uses commas and shit over text? Religious grammatical correctness aside, Lucas is grateful for the card. He uses to order Panda Express that he waits for in the hotel lobby.

Besides him, there’s four other people down there, and they all seem to be part of the same family. The parents are seated on the other side of the room, children up and running around in their general radius. The father has a brown bottle in his hand, and the mom reaches for it, taking a large sip when it’s handed to her. Their children are young, so Lucas gets it.

He tips the delivery lady in cash once she arrives, generously, because he feels weird about making her drive out to a hotel. Plus he’s hungry as hell by the time food arrives, and he’s feeling pretty thankful over this godsend in front of him. He takes his treasure back to the room to eat it the way takeout was invented for: alone, away from the sun, and in front of the television.

HLN is playing Forensic Files—thought it’s not like they play anything else for 90% of the day. It’s fun to watch, in any case, so he’s tuned in for as long as he eats and then some. The pictures they show are nice; they don’t shy away from much in terms of crime scenes. It’s brutal shit that Lucas has had an eye for since he was a 3rd grader. There’s an episode where police find a woman in the woods (which has become something of a theme, really), and they show several photographs of her leathered skin and exposed skull. Her hands are especially intriguing. She was wearing fake nails when she died, and they’re still ruby red and perfect against her yellowing hide. After her, an episode where they track down a man for crimes he committed 40 years ago airs. It gets under Lucas’s skin in an embarrassing way. Would people in Missouri know his face better than a Californian?

He’s still stewing over the thought ten minutes later, so Ethan opening the door makes him jump. Ethan doesn’t notice, too busy futzing with his tie.

“Hey—sorry, I tried to get home quick.”

“’S fine.” Lucas lets out the breath he’d sucked in.

“They’re family owned,” Ethan sticks his tongue out and makes a gagging sound. “I hate family owned, they always feel like they have some image to maintain. Like. I’m here for business, you don’t need to acquaint yourself with my ass so hard.”

Lucas watches in wide-eyed shock as Ethan kicks off his shoes. He’s only ever seen the guy this pissed…probably once, and it was directed at him.

“What happened to leaving work at work?” Lucas quips out, a quote used during one of Lucas’s much more frequent Best Buy tirades. Advice from the man currently bringing work home.

“No, I get to complain about this.” Ethan plants his hands on his hips. “Two extra hours? They invited me to dinner tomorrow, and I panic-agreed so now I’m stuck with that.”

“What are you even doing for them?”

“A lot, they’re contracting us for like. An overhaul pretty much. We’re basically writing a new filing system for them and building an NCS.”

Lucas nods like he knows what NCS stands for. “Gotta trust the man behind the code.”

“Quit trying to sound like me, it doesn’t work,” Ethan says like he’s still as mad, but he’s already smiling a little. “Whatever. Do you want early dinner?”

And he does, so they’re back in the car again driving into town. Breakfast for dinner is what they decide on, and Ethan takes them to some place Lucas can’t believe exists in this part of the country. It’s some non-GMO chain, and there’s a drink with kale in it on the menu.

“Why’d we come here, Mr. California?”

“It got good reviews, I don’t know what you want from me. You want Denny’s?”

Lucas is opening his mouth to say ‘yes, shitty, greasy Denny’s sounds pretty good’, but the words must be visible on his face. Ethan swats the top of his head with a menu before he can get it out.

Despite the stereotypical choice on Ethan’s part, it’s actually really fucking good. Way better than Denny’s, though that certainly has something to do with the freshness rather than whatever ‘all natural’ happens to mean around here. Lucas isn’t expecting to polish everything he ordered off—sausage, hash browns, a four stack of buttermilk pancakes, but he absolutely does. Sort of in spite of himself, because he’s aching after he’s finished. Ethan has something with more greens on his plate, and comes pretty damn close to finishing too. Lucas reaches across the table and takes a piece of cantaloupe, even though he’s full already. He swirls it around in leftover syrup on his own plate, which Ethan grimaces at.

“What on Earth are you doing?”

“Eatin’ my daily fruit,” Lucas pops it whole into his mouth.

“You’re so gross.”

“Everything is gross to you, Ethan.” He says it with jest, but it makes something in his stomach twinge unexpectedly. He lays a hand across the back of his neck, feeling at his own hair and noting the soft, regularly washed texture of it. “I can pay.”

Ethan looks taken aback. “You sure you’ve got enough cash still?”

“I’ve got plenty, c’mon.” In reality, he’s got a twenty and five until he runs out. He pushes up from their table to go pay up front.

Dinner is $24.95. Lucas takes his nickel of change and pockets it, trying not to look like that’s the only money he has now, because—Why, he doesn’t really know. Because people like Ethan eat here, and he doesn’t look like the people who are like Ethan. He looks like the people who surround the city and drink and smoke and spend their last dollar on lotto tickets. Lucas hates those people.

He drops the nickel into the ‘lend a penny’ jar instead. 

Ethan falls asleep quick once he’s gone through his bedtime routine. Lucas doesn’t pass out as immediately as he did last night, and as he lays there, listening to Ethan start to snore, he gets the feeling this is going to be an all-nighter.

He rolls on his stomach, tucking the lame excuse for a pillow under his chest. Mostly out of boredom, he taps on Zoe’s contact, and sends her a picture of the top of his head. There’s hotel art visible behind him, so maybe she’ll ask where he is.

_ethan brought you with?_

Lucas frowns at the message as it pops up. _he already texted you?_

_he texts me regularly / why are you with him i thought it was work stuff_

_it is work stuff why cant i go too_

_lol / youre kind of whipped :/_

_bitch im the one who asked fuck you,_ is the text Lucas sends back, realizing too late that’s not the comeback it sounded like in his head.

Zoe just responds: _yeesh._

Lucas rolls again, onto his side so he’s facing Ethan’s half of the room. The bedside lamp is still on, the only light in the room. It casts soft light around—definitely an incandescent bulb judging by the orange heat of the light. Ethan’s face is illuminated just barely by it, eyes closed and mouth hanging ever so slightly open. His snoring is quiet, not the loud, ugly sound Lucas’s mother had been prone to. Rhythmic and slow, full of little tremolos. And he looks stupidly nice in the streetlamp-esque glow. It makes a crown of his hair. All shiny and golden and smooth. Lucas huffs and flips onto his other side.

\---

Dinner with the administrators is as horrible and awkward as Ethan feared it would be. He feels terribly underdressed when he shows up in about the same outfit as he did yesterday, and pretty much everyone else is in a sport coat.

The restaurant is sort of a drive, deep into town and a trek away from the surrounding chain-only zone. It’s not overly nice, but the bread comes with olive oil and herbs instead of butter. Ethan tries to keep his mouth full while everyone talks—mostly of things too specific to the company for him to know or give a shit about. A woman eventually turns to him when he’s swallowed down a fifth piece of bread.

“You’re from California, right?”

Ethan tries to smile an appropriate amount. “Well. I’m from Texas, but I’ve lived in California for 10 years now.”

“Oh, yeah? Which is better, then?”

“Cali. Easily, God. I think I need to be in a big city like LA.”

She laughs hard. “Yeah…I’m from New York so moving out here was pretty tough.”

“Where in LA are you?” Another man from further down the table joins in. Ethan’s sweating in his shirt. He really doesn’t want the table to start centering on him.

“Oh, uh. We live in Pasadena, actually.” He feels the cringe on his face begin before he can even stop himself. He’s not yet introduced himself like this: as a technically single man now—even if the ‘we’ part is true, it’s certainly not something he needs to be broadcasting.

“You’ve got a family?” The same man asks, sipping wine after he does.

“No, um. No, it’s me and my roommate. I’m—” Well. “I’m a widower.” Because nothing will get this conversation off him as fast as that will.

The guy chokes on his wine. The poor woman across from Ethan looks mortified.

“I’m so sor—”

Ethan shakes his head. “It’s fine, it’s been years.” He’s glad for the way that makes it sound like a decade when he says it. More than four, or just the one, depending on how you count it. As long as he isn’t made to say ‘don’t worry, I’m over it’. They can assume it’s been what they’d deem the proper amount of time.

\---

In the hotel, Lucas checks the clock for the hundredth time. It’s gotten dark out between now and the last check, and the clock by the bed reads 10:58. Ethan had left around 7:30 for dinner, which is turning into more of a night out than dinner, it seems. Lucas frowns at the number like it’s responsible. He’s been in the hotel room since they came home from dinner last night, and he’s getting to the end of his rope with the stagnant view. He pushes himself up from the bed and goes for Ethan’s neat pile of dirty clothes, sifting through the pockets on everything in there. The search eventually yields him $6.02, in a back pants’ pocket on some jeans and a breast pocket of yesterday’s shirt. There’s a gas station just down the way from the hotel, and after sitting around doing nothing, Lucas doesn’t mind the walk.

It’s a Kum & Go--visible just off the horizon as he meanders down the side of the road. The glaring, white fluorescent lights of the building make it feel like an oasis in a night that’s otherwise oily black. The clerk inside looks up when the door chimes, just briefly.

He’s really just here to browse, with money in his pockets for the security of it. In case he wants chips or candy. There’s alcohol in the back, and cigarettes up front, too. He palms at the cash in his jeans when he eyes the beer. It’s all sold in six-packs. The cigarettes up front are cheaper, but a pack would clean him out anyway. He glances to the clerk. She’s reading from her phone, and Lucas is mostly hidden behind the shelves.

He holds his breath when he slips the sleeve of his hoodie over a bottle in one of the loose, cardboard packs. Using the pads of his fingers, he works it soundlessly out, up into the arm of his jacket. When he puts his hand in his pocket, you can hardly tell it’s there.

The clerk doesn’t ID him for smokes, and even lends him a light when he comes up short for the Bic he’s trying to buy too. It’s a certain blessing mixture of how much Lucas looks old enough to smoke, and how little of a shit the clerk must give. She might’ve noticed the beer, for all Lucas knows. Whatever works, works. He places the edge of the bottle cap on a newspaper dispenser once he’s outside, brings his fist down on top and pops the bottle open.

One of many things Lucas hasn’t missed about Louisiana is the humidity. California has nice, dry heat that you can lounge in. A summer night in Missouri is more like the sauna he’s used to. His face, the back of his neck, are getting that familiar, greasy, tacky wetness on them. The room temperature beer doesn’t help much as he sips on it. He’s still sweltering, alternating between swigs and drags on his cigarette, spitting more smoke into the dirty air that’s already acrid with gasoline and exhaust, gritty with flecks of asphalt and oil in suspension. Already stinks of stale tobacco smoke from all the other people who have been around for a fix. Sweat runs down his forehead, and in a reflexive motion he swipes it away with his bottle. He’s still going to drink it all, even though it’s sort of gotten hot in his hand.

When he does drain the last of it, he sets the bottle next to the tire of a truck parked a few spaces down from him, flicks the butt of his cigarette into the smoker’s stand. He dusts himself down, clearing off bits of concrete from his ass before walking back to the hotel.

Ethan is standing in the room when Lucas opens the door, which catches both of them off guard. Ethan looks bewildered for about five seconds before he looks annoyed.

“Jesus, where the Hell were you?”

“Down the street, relax.” Lucas pushes past, through the narrow entryway to his bed and side of the room. He bounces a few times when he throws himself down on it. Ethan wrinkles his nose.

“You smell like smoke.”

“Sorry.”

“Christ, can you not do that while we’re sharing a room?” Ethan huffs, crosses his arms and cocks his hips. “It fucking stinks.”

“I just said sorry, I can’t like. Fuckin’ change it now, what do you want from me? I’m sorry, damn.”

“The fact that you even would, though, we’re sharing a room and it fucking stinks.” Ethan’s mostly talking to himself now, muttered under his breath as he undoes his tie.

They don’t speak again for a long time. Lucas lays on his side, facing the wall as Ethan showers, dresses in his pajamas again. Lucas doesn’t realize until Ethan’s in bed, quiet except for his breath, that he’s gone tense. He’s been counting Ethan’s footsteps.

Ethan props his head up with an arm tucked behind himself, staring at the news but not really listening.

He sighs through his nose. “Sorry. I’m getting mad at the wrong person.”

Lucas lifts his head. “Who’re you mad at, Malboro?”

“I dunno…I should be mad at myself, I guess.” He runs his hand through his hair, brushing away strands that are dripping in his face. “I should’ve said ‘no’ to dinner, I should’ve bailed.”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “You’re just nice.”

“Not really.”

“What happened at dinner, then?” Lucas props himself up fully now too, flipping onto his back.

“Nothing, they’re just. Not my kind of people.” Ethan shrugs. “They all know each other so it was weird that I was there at all….And I told them I was widowed.”

The laugh Lucas returns that revelation with isn’t exactly expected, but it’s absolutely the reaction Ethan didn’t know he needed. It’s perfect.

“Oh my God, yeah, I’m sure that made dinner go real smooth.” He drags a hand over his face, shaking his head grinning with his fangs out. It makes Ethan smile too.

“If I’m lucky they’ll stop including me in this bullshit.”

“If they don’t get that hint there’s bigger problems on the way.” 

Ethan turns his head on the pillow to face Lucas more head on, smile still all over his face. Lucas is still in all his clothes. Jeans, Vans, hoodie pulled up still, which looks silly when he’s laying down.

“Um. Seriously, though, like.” He fidgets under the sheets. The conversation has careened past where he was intending to keep it, and bringing it back to more somber, sensitive topics makes Ethan feel way too vulnerable. He’s kind of glad he’s covered up. “It. Put my mind back there, I guess.”

Lucas looks over at him. “What, in Dulvey?”

Ethan just nods. Lucas has been saying that word all his life; to Ethan it still feels too much like an incantation.

“I think about it too, don’t suppose that’s very unusual…If that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

Ethan sighs. “I don’t know what I’m getting at. I’m not trying to, I guess, I’m just. Talking out of my ass. We don’t talk a lot about it.”

“You _want_ to talk about it more?”

“No,” Ethan laughs out. “I don’t want to talk about it all.”

Lucas splays out his hands as is if to say ‘well there you go’. It’s been one of their social rules, though Ethan is surprised to see Lucas so willing to abide and enforce it. No discussions, no venting, certainly no questions.

“They said on TV you worked with them.” Ethan knows he doesn’t have to clarify those antecedents.

Lucas shrugs. “I paid back a favor.” He picks at his fingernails, scratching at a crack until he’s able to peel off an overgrown bit. “Not like they ‘preciated me doin’ what I was doin’, but they said that on TV too.”

They didn’t, really, but Ethan knows Lucas is referring to the consequences he personally wrought.

“What happened to make you think that?”

Lucas wrinkles his nose. “Hard to pick a single thing, gonna make me sound petty if I try.” He flicks the bit of his nail across the room. “Didn’t look at me right. The guys, I mean… Took this fuckin’. Tone with me. I picked the locks on some of the lockers we had down there, one of them had his own little diary he kept ‘bout how much _he_ deserved to be the head ‘cause he had some fuckin’ degree ‘n how stupid I was.” And the helicopters that would fly over every now and then. It was an impossible feeling to shake, worse than feeling looked down upon—being looked at too much. “I was gonna sell the data and skip town, eventually. Before you came.”

Ethan doesn’t know if he should be apologetic about that or not. “What was the plan?”

Lucas laughs. “The plan was the get the fuck outta there. I had a pretty good situation, but. Y’know. I don’t trust them too much, they don’t trust me. I just needed cash.”

“I mean for your family, getting them out. You’d have to cure them, too.”

This is the question that Lucas hesitates on. He draws his eyebrows together. “Curin’ the old man certainly wasn’t part’a the plan, Ethan.”

The sick wash of embarrassment pulls the color from Ethan’s face, and he’s got the cold chill of a misstep entirely across his cheeks, the back of his neck. He knows he looks like that woman had at dinner. They haven’t talked about anything, so of course he doesn’t know where not to tread, but. Still. “…Well. Zoe, at least, right?”

Lucas considers. “Wouldn’t help her, but I wouldn’t do anythin’ else to stop her.” He never got very far in the plan of what to do once he settled on a buyer. Zoe is the one person he would stop bothering. Killing Mom and Dad would’ve been a strategic move, at the very least.

He must’ve gotten scary quiet in his thought, because Ethan’s next words are all small and squeaked out. “…Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Assuming. About your dad, I mean. It seemed like Zoe liked him, so—”

“Yeah, well, he liked Zoe more ‘n he liked me.” Lucas crosses his arms over his chest. “Ma at least kept all those stupid trophies, he always wanted to throw ‘em out after I graduated.” He huffs and sits up. “Whatever. We’re done talkin’ about my dad. You done in the bathroom?”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah, I’m—” Lucas pushes up from the bed before Ethan can finish his sentence.

The shower is nice. Lucas’s skin is grimy with sweat and clinging dirt from the humid, roadside air and tobacco, and the bathroom is still full of Ethan’s leftover steam. Lucas scrubs his scalp, around his collar where the hoodie he’s worn makes him sweat the most. He brushes his teeth with the same fervor, trying to replace the hoppy taste in his mouth with menthol. Ethan can probably hear him rinse and spit three times until he’s satisfied, but whatever. It’s not like they don’t already live together with the full brunt of each other’s idiosyncrasies… Lucas likes to think Ethan has more.

By the time he’s done, Ethan’s settled fully into bed, arm tucked behind his head and cheek pressed into his pillow. There’s a throb of relief, low in Lucas’s throat, more in the diaphragm area, to see him that relaxed. He’d looked haggard, his perfect hair falling just slightly out of place, sort of glassy-eyed and looking more pissed off than his usual half-assed annoyance. Lucas has more than once considered the possibility that he makes that face on purpose, because he’s got baby-face to the worst degree. Lucas does his best to shake the thought, changing out of his jeans and sitting cross-legged in bed, scrolling on his phone. Part of him sort of wishes he’d let Ethan go on needling him about his father now that it’s quiet. At least it’d be something to keep him awake a little longer, because so far these people have done a good job at keeping Ethan too busy for anything besides…Well. What he came here for, but…Mm. Lucas grabs one of his pillows and chucks it across the room.

Ethan flails at the contact. “Mhuh?” 

“Hey.”

Ethan rolls, makes another watered down noise before a word comes out. “What?”

“Make them let you come back tomorrow.”

He sighs, laying his arm across his eyes. “Lucas—”

“You got to ask stupid questions, do that for me.” For Ethan it’ll be an okay exchange, at least. Right now, to Lucas, it feels like a second blow to be asking for this.

Ethan doesn’t say anything, has fallen back asleep. Lucas gets up and delivers a soft smack to his cheek. “Ethan.”

“Mm—” Ethan swats around again, this time finding Lucas’s wrist and catching it. “Fuck off, yes, okay?”

“Just need to make sure you heard me.”

Ethan grunts, looking angry again and pouting with his eyes closed. The expression falls from his face after a moment, though, just the same as his fingers slip off of Lucas’s arm. The brushing of skin against skin is unfortunate, considering he’s going to sleep just a few feet away from the guy. It takes him a long time, once he’s laying down on his side, to come to the conclusion that he is, in fact, above a shameful jerk-off to thoughts of Ethan he’s gone over before. It helps that he also sort of can’t get home off his mind, too.

\---

Jack Baker had been a nice man whenever he was off the drink, which was more often than what Lucas imagined ‘actual’ alcoholics could handle. He would have a beer with most dinners, maybe a couple more after…He just didn’t get completely shit-faced much. It was glorious when he did. Lots of screaming and shouting that everyone got used to once Eveline came around—Lucas had figured maybe that’s what was wrong, just before he’d been given the gift too.

The nose-breaking fiasco had been an epic affair, with traumatic implications that transformed it into something horribly symbolic. It’d been over dinner, something hot that needed a cold beer to wash it down. So Jack drank, and drank, and drank, looking meaner with every sip. Nine years later, Lucas won’t remember what exactly he’d been mouthing off about, because it hadn’t been important—only that he could be mean too, just as mean as Jack. He won’t remember the punch itself, either. Just coming to his senses, with his head thrown sharply to the side and his whole face pulsing with pain. He will remember, with clarity, the ensuing silence. From himself, from Zoe. From Jack and Mom. He’d brought a hand to his face, feeling warmth there and finding the beginnings of a trickle of blood. He looked to Jack.

There’d been shock on his face, for the first few seconds of eye contact between the two of them. It hardened quickly, because Jack had always been a stubborn man.

“Now.” He cleared his throat, straightened up in his seat. “You just hush and eat your dinner, boy.” He took a bite, as if to set an example.

Lucas looked to his mother, wide-eyed just for the sheer shock of it, because that hadn’t just happened. Mom had kept to her eyes down, wide and watery at the edges with a trembling lip. Fucking cowering, saying nothing.

Zoe’s sniffling caught his attention last, and he’d turned to see her shoveling dinner into her mouth, cheeks ruddy and eyelids puffy and tears all down her face. Her expression had been stern, though, the grip on her fork hard enough to turn her knuckles white.

The last thing he’d looked at had been his plate, dotted with red now as blood flowed readily from his right nostril. He was too afraid to swipe it away with his hand, so he’d licked it away best he could, tasting salt under the copper and realizing he was crying, too. Jack didn’t stop him when he stood up, running out the double doors and stomping up the stairs to the bathroom. He threw up what he had eaten that night, after dabbing away the flaking, rust-colored stream on his face with a wet cloth. In bed he’d dreamed of grabbing Jack’s bottle, of throwing it down and just letting it out. Curses, screaming, maybe punching back. Maybe keeping a hold of that bottle neck and doing something with the jagged edge.

But he isn’t the son his father wants, so he won’t. Because he can’t.

He ain’t brave like a man is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is nigh, I think, for this one....so of course thank you reading, and to everyone who's left comments and kudos and bookmarks and everything! I don't know AO3 etiquette and I'm too #nervous to respond to everyone, but I read all the comments you guys leave, and I appreciate them SO So so so so much...please feel free to talk to me on tumblr (@halware is my main, @felsics is my art blog) though! I love u all!


	5. Chapter 5

Lucas wakes up alone at nine in the morning. It’s the sort of consciousness he’s reluctant to accept, but his body has decided it’s slept enough, and there’s nothing he can really do about it. He sits up, hunched over in bed and rubs at his eyes. He’s still foggy and bleary for a few minutes.

When he does finally become more aware of his surroundings, he notices two things on the desk across the room: a note, and a bagged muffin. The handwriting on the note is Ethan’s—meaning it’s very prim and girly.

_Lucas_

_I will be back at 2 for real this time. Orange juice in the fridge._

Under that he’s drawn the muffin and orange juice, and signed it. When Lucas peeps in the fridge, there is a mini bottle of OJ, as promised. Behind that is also a Dr. Pepper and a chocolate bar, with another note.

_THIS IS NOT BREAKFAST_. _EAT THIS AFTER BREAKFAST PLEASE!!! _

Lucas looks from the note to the chocolate, deciding if he’s really gonna listen to some piece of paper with Ethan’s handwriting on it…Like. He absolutely will, but. Better give that some room to call resistance.

He eats his muffin in Ethan’s bed to make up for it. Even if he eats over the packaging he’s getting crumbs everywhere, and that’ll piss Ethan off in a fun way, hopefully. The muffin itself is actually pretty good. It’s blueberry, and it’s got those large sugar granules baked into the top, which Lucas likes the crunch of. He eats it all, drinks about half of his juice before placing that back in the minifridge and getting into his chocolate. It’s after breakfast, technically, so it’s fair game.

When he’s done eating, he decides he wants to take another shower--because he really does feel dirty still from yesterday. It is _not_ for the express purpose of jerking off, though he goes ahead and indulges himself in that too.

Home isn’t on his mind so much after a good breakfast and sleep…And Ethan’s hotel sheets smell like him. And so does the shower. And the more time he spends here, in the in-between place, the less and less he feels like the world is real, so maybe it’s easier to let go of his hang-ups when he takes himself in hand. If Ethan’s on his mind, that’s fine. Right now, it’s okay to think about—about his hair. His eyes, god, and his fucking hands. The next time he sees Ethan shirtless he’s going to kiss along that scar on his stomach; gonna get him properly embarrassed and pouting and then he’ll ask for—

So it’s the fourth time he’s come while thinking of a man. All things considered that’s not a bad statistic, right? He couldn’t count all the times he’s cranked it to other things, men is in the single digits still. Twice before to Ethan, one of which happened when he was pretty sauced.

The first time he’d thought of man, he’d had a shit day already. It had been after Eveline, a year into it and therefore the dawn of his involvement with The Connections. Coworkers was something he hadn’t taken well to, and his coworkers hadn’t taken well to him either. That feeling hadn’t been a new one, to his dismay, kind of. The first time he’s been himself in a year, his home descending properly into filth, and he feels like he’s back in school. Between graduation and Eveline, he hadn’t gotten much done in the way of socialization, because he was a pariah and he knew it. If anything, all the new Connections crew had been worse than old classmates. They came into town with shiny gear and PhDs, in a number of cases, with teeth so white you knew they had money to throw around on procedures like that. Surrounded by people, and he feels lonelier in the salt mines than he does at home with a dead family.

It put his mind in a bad place; that’s probably what the school counselor would have told him. Thoughts of school and people who hate him, feeling weak and maybe developing a fetish for his own emasculation through it all. He was in the attic, laying across the ratty, sagging couch and wanting to fucking tear his hair out over this all. Oliver was his old standby for these things. He’d really shown Oliver, taught him and everyone else a lesson…Lucas Baker was a brave man, a big man. Who else could say they’d done what he had?

…And if he hadn’t?

He’d twitched in place, growing cold at the thought of what Oliver would look like today, grown up like the boys who hadn’t been so unlucky. Oliver would’ve gotten tall, probably. Beefier than Lucas was, because all his classmates were. Especially the sporty ones, and Oliver liked soccer…If Oliver saw him now…?

He’d probably get his teeth kicked in, all things considered. Oliver would be bigger, stronger, it wouldn’t matter that Lucas was still the smart one anymore. Oliver would deck him no problem, beat him to the ground and—and then what?

His mouth had gone dry. An hour later, he’d have to rationalize forgiveness out of himself, because it’d been a damn year since he’d gotten around to anything like that. So when he gets hard for the thought of a 20 year old Oliver stepping on his wrists and pinning him down in the dirt, it doesn’t mean anything.

_“You still ain’t, shit, boy.”_ Is what this Oliver says to him in the fantasy, grinding his heel between Lucas’s legs. The real Lucas had mimicked the act with his hand, hating how good it felt. Oliver would tease him about it, surely. Hard for this? For me? Fucking pathetic, Oliver would say, and Lucas shocked himself into orgasm by imagining, nearly involuntarily, that Oliver would kick him there, between his thighs hard.

That’s the only time his fantasies ever went so head on in the direction of masochism, and the only time until moving in with Ethan that men had come into play. When he’s got his wits again in the shower, he’s leaning against the wall, head braced on his arm and breathing heavily. He finishes washing his hair, rinses and towels off before changing into a fresh set of clothes.

It’s only 11 by the time he’s done with his extended ablution, which leaves him feeling frustrated. Ethan’s promise to be back at a set time has him more antsy than usual. Maybe he was right that Lucas was going to hate this, back at the beginning; waiting for Ethan in the hotel is worse than home. At least at home there was a guarantee of entertainment to be cycled through. Here in the hotel, Lucas can only busy himself with television, food, and masturbating for so long. He _has_ been able to gather that there’s a pool somewhere in the hotel, though its exact whereabouts are unclear. He also didn’t pack a swimsuit. Boxers might cut it as long as no one else is around…maybe boxers with briefs underneath. Weighing the odds, he suspects he has a pretty good chance of the pool area being cleared out. Not too early so as to run into the fit crowd, but too early for any families and their children. So he strips down again, donning two pairs of underwear this time, and grabs a dry towel from the bathroom. While he’s in there, he can’t avoid seeing himself in the huge mirror—one of those that takes up the entire upper half of the wall.

Ethan had mentioned his build directly one time. In a concerned way, because everything concerns Ethan. He’d been surprised that Lucas hadn’t filled out more after a couple months in his home. A year later, and he looks about the same. He’s gained two pounds, and that’s about it. Ethan’s twenty pounds heavier than he is, doesn’t look as much like a beanpole.

Lucas wraps the towel around his chest instead of his waist.

The pool, thankfully, is empty. Even though he’s well secured in briefs and boxers, wearing underwear to the pool is a move he’s kind of unsure about; he can see getting kicked out over it. But there’s no one there to witness this pretty egregious faux pau, so he claims a chair with the bath towel he’s brought down.

The room itself is a little muggy. There’s a cloudy skylight above the water, letting in the light and heat from the sun that’s creeping its way overhead. The evaporating water can’t leave, just clogs up the air. Concrete and tile make Lucas’s footsteps echo as he makes his way along pool’s the edge, to the diving board.

It looks relatively clean, and it’s pretty, at least. Especially where the skylight has lit up the water, casting wavy reflections across the ceiling, throughout the pool itself. Ribbons of light twinkle around wildly at varying depths. From his vantage point, perched on the edge of the diving board now, the chalky white pool bottom seems infinitely far away. He turns, back to the water, holding his arms out, and lets himself fall backward.

\---

Clancy Jarvis was infuriating for a lot of reasons. Mostly because he was good at cards and bluffing, and could apparently keep his head enough during a third round of 21 to notice what had been, admittedly, a glaring fucking mistake on Lucas’s part. He’d gone through the deck afterwards and removed that trump card. He’ll block out this particular moment of hubris, won’t think about it again until Ethan plays off a similar mistake. Because no matter—Lucas has plenty of games to keep them occupied. There’s one in development, actually, which’ll be perfect for such a pain in his ass like Clancy Jarvis.

He cries out when Lucas turns the lights off. One victory hasn’t given him the illusion of the upper hand, thankfully. Lucas lets him flounder for a minute, work himself up into a genuine panic in the dark. The handling is his least favorite part anyway. He’s okay putting it off.

When he does enter the room, he makes no attempt to be quiet, though he isn’t louder than he needs to be either—he lets his presence have an air of ease and confidence. The best show is sometimes the absence of one. Clancy gasps when the floorboards creak.

“What is that?”

Lucas bites his tongue, circling the edge of the room instead. Clancy’s breathing only gets harder, faster every time the wood groans under the shifting of weight.

“Lucas?” He’s whipping his head side to side now, looking for something in the pitch black. His eyes must not have adjusted yet, because several times they’re looking directly at each other. “That’s your name, right, man? Listen, we had a deal! I won, I get to go! I won’t tell anyone, I’ll just leave and—”

Like Lucas gives a damn about ‘telling’. Clancy has stupid, long hipster hair which Lucas can grab easily, and he gets himself a silky little handful. When he rips his arm back hard, forcing Clancy to bare his throat he screams. Any words that were still bubbling out turn to warbled pleas that aren’t English anymore.

“I am damn tired of your complainin’, Clancy, so shut up.” 

Clancy does his best. He’s not entirely silent, worried little noises still escape him as Lucas maneuvers his body, pressing his face into the table, bringing his arms behind his back where they’re zip-tied. He only shouts again when he feels Lucas press a knife against the back of his neck.

“Please—”

“I said shut up, god _damn_ , can’t follow simple fuckin’ instructions!”

It’s like he’s trying to prove Lucas wrong with the way his jaw snaps shut. Lucas could swear he heard the rattle of teeth, smashing against each other in Clancy’s haste. He’s trembling now--sounds like he might be crying. Lucas rolls his wrist, scrapes the blade upward, in a shaving motion that removes a good chunk of hair.

“Just tryin’ to move you, alright?” Lucas leans down, close to Clancy’s ear. It makes him shiver: the warm and sour smelling breath that’s still wet against his skin. “Tell me you understand.”

The saliva in Clancy’s esophagus makes a wet click as he swallows, nodding profusely in response to Lucas’s demand. It ain’t good enough. Lucas presses the knife down. He can feel resistance, then the pop of skin giving, and a rush of hot blood hits his knuckles. “I said _tell me_!”

“YES!” Clancy’s body jerks away, into the table and he sobs. “Yes, yes, I’m understand! I understand, yes…” His words get choked and short at the end, like he’s having trouble getting enough oxygen in with how much he’s trying to get his begging out. Lucas withdraws his knife.

“See, it ain’t hard to just do what I tell you.”

He stands up straight, wipes the blade against his pants before tucking it into his pocket. Clancy is quiet and still, doing his best to please. He puts on a satisfactory show, so Lucas brings the side of his leg into the back of the chair, sending Clancy to the floor. His head meets the ground hard, and a little spurt of blood goes across the white wood. He winces when he lands, but opens his eyes as quick as he can afterwards, blinking wildly and looking around the room with blown wide pupils. It doesn’t look like he’s focusing on anything. Maybe he’s concussed. Lucas grabs his ankles and starts to drag.

Between that room and what will be his holding cell, Clancy passes out. Not from blood loss, which would be a more worrying medical development (although he does leave a small trail on the ground…he’ll have a welt on the back of his head when he comes to, surely), but from a milder mix of the head trauma and the exhaustion. It’s only some sort of physiological response. Lucas has seen the human body do a lot of interesting things in response to this kind of stress, and passing out isn’t the novelty it was the first time.

Lucas uses his hip to nudge open the door to Clancy’s temporary prison. It’s one of the odd rooms in the barn, tool storage or something. It’s full of hay currently, and Lucas rests the unconscious body on a pile of it. He groans when he can finally let go. Sometimes, he wonders if he got the short stick on the whole superstrength part of his condition. And Clancy’s a tall dude. A heavy dude. A motherfucking smart ass who thinks he can get Lucas at his own game. Lucas snarls and kicks Clancy’s body in the ribs. It jumps passively with the force.

Hoffman’s body will need disposing of too. Lucas considers the remains when he comes back. Mostly intact, if a little burnt. His face is gone too, but Lucas had been thinking about passing this one along to Ma, and she didn’t have much use for the head. She finds a lot more joy in the soft middle. Lucas hikes up the shirt Hoffman’s wearing, which is now a tattered, smoldering thing. He’s not fat, but he isn’t really in shape either. He might make nice soup.

The head is what Lucas finds himself a little in love with. Mr. Saw really is a reliable old friend; he’s never been disappointed in what it can do. Hoffman’s been reduced largely to mince by it, a salad of lots of unidentifiable pink and off white pieces.

Lucas reaches into the hole Hoffman has for a face now, plucking off bits of flesh still clinging to the exposed bone. There’s a number of notches in the skull, a piece missing, and cerebrospinal fluid is leaking out from the gap left behind. The jaw itself has probably suffered the worst. One of the knives must’ve caught in his teeth, because it’s been fractured and partially torn off. Ribbons of tongue lay over the broken teeth, and Lucas brushes them aside to grab hold of the mandible, wrenching it the rest of the way off. It’s hard—attached by some chewy, gristly bit of tissue, but it does come off after a snapping sound. Lately Lucas been into trying to preserve some pieces, and this one seems like a good little souvenir. He puts it in his pocket.

What he has in line for Clancy still needs a few finishing touches, but that’s alright. A little recovery period will do them both good, get them properly primed for this next experiment. If Clancy’s such a puzzle solver, he can solve this next one. By all means.

And he does. He does it well, actually, figuring it out quickly and dutifully. Gasoline spills out from the barrel all the while—the first thing he did, and his ultimate undoing. He looks warily proud of himself, Lucas can see on the screens he’s watching from, as he presses the lit candle into the frosting, presses the button hidden underneath. There’s a split second dropping of his smile when he hears the ticking of a mechanism inside. Just a second before the room is engulfed by fire.

Clancy’s throat burns up first. After all the screaming his lungs need air, and his body forces him to gulp down smoke and ash. He falls to the ground when his nervous system starts giving up, dizzied and dying, slowly catching fire too. Lucas is glued to the screen, watching him claw at his own flesh and curl into a crescent moon on the ground, like he can hide from his own death.

\---

Lucas’s ass hits the bottom of the pool. His eyes are screwed shut against the water around him, and when he claws his way up and out, his body is starting to scream in panic, unsure of when its next breath is coming. He flounders and gasps when he does finally surface, opening his eyes too quick and trying desperately to blink away the resulting sting. He paddles to the edge of the pool, gripping at it with one hand and scrubbing water out of his eyes with the other.

\---

Ethan is overjoyed once he’s seated safely in his car, at his newfound ability in extricating himself from too friendly ‘business’ situations. It’s 1:30 once he’s buckled up, so he should be back at the room around 2, just like he promised. He gives his phone a cursory glance before he drives. Zoe’s texted him a couple times. The first is a picture of McDonalds.

_shes treating me_ , and then the see no evil emoji. _you just WISH you were me right now_

Ethan sends back a picture of his own face, frowning exaggeratedly. _I thought we were friends and you don’t even share… :-(_

She sends back the middle finger and a smiley.

Back in the hotel room, Ethan goes through a few stages in a cycle of emotion. First, surprise that Lucas is not still in bed, because he was half expecting the guy to still be asleep. Then rescindment of said surprise, as Lucas is indeed asleep, just in the other bed. Then surprise again, because Lucas is asleep in _Ethan’s_ bed, wrapped in a towel. He’s mildly damp, and smells like a pool, too. The environmental storytelling is riveting, until Ethan notices the crumbs scattered across his sheets and frowns. _Dick._

But whatever. Lucas is laying in most of the mess, curled up like in a crescent by the headboard, so Ethan can take the foot. He’s got work to keep him busy until Lucas wakes up again. He kicks off his shoes, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, laptop in his lap and ready to wait it out.

Lucas gives him a run for his money, though, because after sitting like that for two hours Ethan’s legs are aching and numb. He hisses through his teeth when he finally gives up, adjusting himself and rolling his ankles. He falls back onto the bed once he can feel his toes again, folding his hands across his stomach. When he does that, he isn’t intending to fall asleep--but he must start to. His body does that terrible, falling jolt thing which startles him awake. Lucas is leaning over his face when he opens his eyes.

“Oh. Hey.”

“Mornin’.” Lucas sits back on his rear, giving Ethan room to sit up again. “How long you been here?”

“Since two, but.” He gestures to Lucas. “Wasn’t about to wake you up.” He pauses, hand still held out and furrows his brow. “You’re. Are you wearing clothes?”

Lucas peeks inside the towel like he’s unsure. “Yeah, a little bit.” 

“A little?”

“I got underwear on.”

“You want to put on actual clothes, then, and we can get a drink?”

“Oh-hoh!” Lucas raises his eyebrows. “See, there we go, that’s what I came out here for!” He hops from the bed, gripping the towel closed around his hips, though it’s slung low enough that now Ethan can see he’s wearing Calvin Klein. Lucas flicks his hand at the wrist a few times. “Turn ‘round, lemme change.”

Ethan does so, facing the wall and covering his eyes while Lucas fusses through his luggage, clinks around with a belt. There’s a last, metallic _zip!_ , and Lucas clap his hands together.

“I’m decent, where’re we goin’?” 

Ethan looks up from his hands. Lucas is just in a tee and way too big utility pants. It’s immediately evident Lucas picked those pants out, and Ethan himself must’ve picked the shirt, because the shirt actually fits him right. When he crosses his arms over his chest, it pulls the fabric a little bit snug. It doesn’t show off any muscles, but just the thought that Lucas has a body under there causes a special set of synapses fire in Ethan’s head, ones which make him blush to rosy cheeks level.

“You mind just drinking in the lobby, I don’t know the spots around here.”

“If they have liquor, it’s good enough for me.”

So Ethan takes him downstairs again, to the lobby where the bar is empty at this early hour. It takes a moment for the bartender to notice they’ve even sat down. Ethan says he just wants scotch. Lucas motions for the same.

“No beer?”

“I ain’t picky ‘bout my alcohol.” Lucas rests his head against his fist, propped up on the counter. “But you are, right? You’re picky ‘bout everythin’.”

“Not right now,” Ethan shakes his head. “I just need. To relax, get a buzz and be done for the night.” He nods a thanks to the bartender when he slides two glasses to them. It’s not horribly cheap, but also not the best scotch Ethan’s ever had. It at least burns enough to let him know that _oh yeah, that’ll do it._ Lucas throws his back like a shot.

“Christ, be careful with that!”

Lucas is already coughing into his fist, going back to his glass for one of the ice cubes. “Oh, fuck--” Is all that escapes him besides more spluttering, hacking noises.

Ethan can’t help himself from laughing. He tries to make up for it, hiding his face behind his palms. “You—fucking, dork, what the hell was that?”

“A mistake,” Lucas manages to choke out, which just makes Ethan laugh harder. It’s a relief—this is what is he was looking for.

They fill the next hour with another two scotches and a couple of beers—going to Ethan and Lucas respectively. By the end of it, Ethan’s comfortably on the edge of drunk. Somehow less so than Lucas, whose eyes have gotten swimmy, and looks perpetually like he’s fighting to not rest his face on the bar.

“What’d you eat today?”

Lucas rubs the heel of his hand into his eyes. “Had that muffin. N’ chocolate.”

Which would explain a lot. Ethan nudges him to keep his attention. “Well, what’re we doing for dinner, we can’t go anywhere.”

“Um.” Lucas looks up at the ceiling and bunches his face up in concentration and frustration. It’s unfair of Ethan to request such a Herculean task of him, because conjuring up the name of a food he’d like to eat right now is going to take a minute. “Like. A cheeseburger.”

“I can order some cheeseburgers here.” Ethan nods, going for his phone. He’s tapping in their order, two of the same. It’s been all of five seconds, but apparently, it’s already taken him too long, because Lucas starts crowding over his shoulder to look at the screen.

“What?”

“Is it coming?”

“I’m doing it right now; it comes when it comes.”

Lucas huffs and only slumps further into Ethan’s side, which was sort of the opposite of what Ethan was trying to make happen, but. That’s fine, he guesses. Lucas can slump where he wants, yeah? And it’s nice, anyway, Ethan’s slowed brain chirps out, to be so close again. The drunk part of him keeps trying to put his arm around Lucas, though he continually fights that by sort of. Idly grabbing his arm instead; repeatedly squeezing and letting go.

So basically, a step away from feeling him up in public. They definitely look drunker than they are. Or as drunk, and he doesn’t realize it yet.

When the food guy arrives, he sends a text announcing his presence outside, so Ethan half-stumbles out to meet him. He can tell by the way this dude is looking at him that he’s clearly inebriated, so he tries to be as nice as possible. The delivery man smiles at Ethan when he slides over a twenty dollar tip for a fourteen dollar order, and politely refuses--though he will take a five. He wishes Ethan a safe night as he’s headed back to his car.

Inside, Lucas has given up on not putting his head down. He’s resting, face in his arms, and makes a nasal whine of protest when Ethan jostles him.

“We should go upstairs; I think we’re a nuisance.”

“What?”

“I think we’re too drunk to be down here.” Ethan says a little louder, holding up the bag of food. “Upstairs, we’ll eat in the room.”

Lucas nods, bracing himself on the bar to slide down, off his seat. Ethan makes a grabby, waving motion once Lucas is standing and stable, to signal him to follow off to the elevator. They’re both quiet on the way. Ethan, mostly because he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself by saying something dumb. And he feels like he will. As for Lucas, he looks like he might be ready to fall back sleep once he’s got a bed underneath him. Thinking about this makes Ethan inordinately worried about the extra burger they’re going to be left with if Lucas falls asleep before he can eat. He’s glad he decided to stay quiet.

Somewhere between the bar and the elevator, somebody grabs someone else’s hand. The act of it goes unnoticed—some unconscious, instinctual thing. After a few floors of people hoping on and off, Ethan realizes it’s happened, and that neither of them have let go. It makes him panicky, yet again, and he knows he’s openly staring and searching Lucas’s face. In terms of emotional insight about _this_ development, it shows nothing…. But he does have his nose wrinkled up, and he keeps rubbing the back of his hand across his face. Ethan squeezes their hands, forgetting immediately that he’s supposed to be worrying about it, and not this.

“You gonna be okay?” He leans in, keeping his voice low because there’s like. Four other people in the elevator with them. Everything about Lucas and Ethan is sort of a secret; he feels that hard in his heart somewhere, certain of it.

Lucas nods. “Think I’m hungry.”

Ethan’s glad the elevator’s crowded in that moment. If he weren’t in public he swears to God, he would’ve just pulled Lucas in and kissed him then—he’s never sounded that small before.

In the room they sit on their respective beds, and Ethan passes Lucas his share of the food. It’s really not that great, but Ethan eats all of his anyway, and tries to imagine himself sobering up like he can will that into reality. Lucas eats his fries, nibbles around the edge of his burger.

“Is it too pink?”

“I shouldn’t’ve gotten drunk.”

They speak at the same time. Ethan blinks twice as he’s processing. “What?”

“Do you think I have a problem?” Lucas looks up, through his eyelashes which are almost too blonde to be visible. Other than how cute that is, he’s starting to look like death warmed over.

“I. I don’t think so? I mean—” Ethan sits up, nearly falling off the edge of his bed. “I’m not you, so. I dunno what goes on in your head, so I can’t say, but I never got the…Um. Impression. That you do.”

Lucas just sighs and falls onto his back. “I’m gonna, it’s gonna get passed down to me.”

“…Do. Should I not let you drink?”

“No,” he huffs, covering his eyes with his hands. “Er—no like, no don’t. Fuckin’ worry about it, I’m not sayin’ nothin’ anyway.”

“…Oh.”

Lucas grimaces, or his frown deepens. Whatever he’s doing with his face, Ethan doesn’t really like to see. He asks again: “Are you okay?”

Lucas sighs, rolls onto his stomach and groans into the bed. “No.”

Oh again. Ethan feels a weighted thing in his chest, rolling down his spine.

“What do you need?” he asks, intending it to be a surface level question and despising the way he can’t even ask something like that without imbuing it in subtext. Or maybe it would be impossible to ask it any other way, because the implication is in the words already. _I’ll give it to you whatever it is, I worry about you so much, I know you need, I’m not afraid of that like you are so give it to me and I’ll make it better, okay?_ There are other, more concise words that could suffice, too.

Lucas is still face down for a moment, then pushing up suddenly, and off his bed altogether.

Ethan knows he’s staring. Wide-eyed and maybe even open-mouthed when Lucas comes across the gap between them. Ethan’s balling up his food trash and setting it aside as he gawks like yeah, okay, of course, even though he’s not entirely sure where this is going. Lucas sits down across from him, criss-cross apple sauce with his hands in his lap. Looking at Ethan’s hands, he finds that they’re similarly postured. Ethan is about to open his mouth again when Lucas leans across, his arms going around Ethan’s neck and his face into Ethan’s shoulder. When he sighs Ethan can feel it—breath and the deflation of his chest as the rest of him goes almost completely slack. Before he even knows it, Ethan is already hugging back.

“Oh, Lucas…” he mumbles into the hood of Lucas’s sweatshirt, words coming of their own volition too as he’s dimly aware of how mournful he sounds. Like the worry wart mother Mia warned him of becoming. 

“Just. Like. For a second, okay?” Lucas’s voice is muffled too. Muffled and small again which just makes Ethan squeeze tighter. He rubs his hand up and down Lucas’s back, over his neck. Up into the short, fine fuzz at the base of his head.

He whispers out “It’s fine,” and can feel his own breath on his fingertips, a ways across Lucas’s skin.

Lucas makes a noise in the back of his throat, sort of like a complaint and definitely grudging admission. Ethan moves his arm more to the waist, guiding him gently forward. Obliging, he scoots up, eventually all the way into Ethan’s lap, taking the opportunity to wrap around him completely. Legs and arms both, face pressed shamelessly (or despite it, rather) into the crook of Ethan’s neck. His breaths are audible and tactile like this; chest to chest. Slow in, stuttering out occasionally but mostly smooth on the exhale as well, regular intervals in between.

“Hey.”

Ethan startles from cataloguing the sensation. “Mm?”

“Are you fallin’ asleep?”

Ethan shakes his head as much as he can when they’re so tangled and tight. “No, not yet.” But he definitely is. This is comforting to him too, to feel the weight and warmth of Lucas against himself… Mostly the warmth—the living body exclusive type. He might always worry a little, no matter how long it’s been, that one day it won’t be there anymore…Best to savor it, then, when he finds it still persisting. Savor it in the slowing motions of his hand on the back of Lucas’s neck, repeating them long past when his eyes have shut, and his brain has dutifully turned itself off as well.

It’s three in the morning when Ethan’s conscious again. He feels sluggish, to say the least, and wildly disoriented. The room is heavily dark, the sheets starchy under his hands. It mimics the way his mouth has dried up, and he’s warm in a way that guilt is tugging at the back of his brain for. He flips onto his side, somewhat despaired.

Together with him, Lucas is still in bed. Not _on_ him anymore, but rolled off to the side, balled up and stern faced in his sleep like he’s having an important. dream. So, good, yeah? Because they’d most certainly fallen asleep in a way more compromising position. Both pretty brazenly clinging to each other, certainly too much for a Baker’s personal taste. At least now he’s got time to fiddle with the evidence…If Lucas is going to wake up in Ethan’s bed, the least Ethan can do is afford him the comfort of being alone, at least that much dignity left. Poor guy’s already asked to be held, stood on the verge of straight begging for some affection. Being as straight as he is and all that, Ethan can imagine the toll on his psyche.

When he stands, Ethan’s careful to keep the shifting gradual. He can slip away, easy. Ethan Winters can do this dance too. 

They need coffee and breakfast anyway, so he can be of use and fetch that before things are too busy. He throws his shoes on, pocketing his wallet and the room key, not bothering much with his appearance before heading out.

The hallway feels longer at night. Longer, and quieter, but also not different at all. Lights still on, appliances humming. Time has refused to pass here, judging by anything other than Ethan’s internal clock. There’s someone in the elevator, even, when he gets on. They’re leaned up against the back wall, and don’t say anything when Ethan enters. The both of them look similarly disheveled.

“Coming down from where?” Ethan asks, mostly just to be sure this person actually exists. It feels completely plausible that they don’t.

“Seventh floor.”

“Coffee too?”

They move their head side to side, then transition that into a nod. “Yeah, maybe. We’ve got a baby upstairs.”

Ethan puffs out a laugh. “I see, then.”

They smile in return. “Just gettin’ through another one.” They shrug, _what’re you gonna do,_ and the elevator chimes for the lobby not too long after.

\---

By the time they’re leaving for home again, Lucas is having trouble remembering why he made such a stink over coming along. He’s not gotten much for his efforts; Ethan’s been busy just like, if not more so than, being at home, and packing up to get back in the car sucks worse this time around. Two days in the car is all he’s got to look forward to…That and the basement once they get home. So, still not a whole lot. When he thinks of if it would’ve been better staying behind, though, it doesn’t do anything but make his heart get out of rhythm.

What he’s most grateful for is that Ethan doesn’t bring up the getting drunk part of it all. It’s the last thing he wants to think about. They’re leaving the hotel behind. Goodbye to the uncomfortable beds, the bar, the shower, to the cranny-in-between-dimension those things reside in, and to the rules that govern them, because they are certainly different rules. He zips his duffel bag up, now full of dirty clothes.

The ride home is the same old one. There’s a sign on the way out of Missouri, the only thing in the field they’re driving by.

_Disillusioned? Jesus has answers. Call (83) FOR-TRUTH_

Even Zoe’s more keyed up for their return than he is—for the return of Ethan, at least. Lucas supposes she could take or leave him, which he’s been slowly not blaming her for so much anymore. It’s a variable thing.

She’s texting Ethan while it’s Lucas’s turn to drive. It makes his phone buzz every five seconds once they’re back in California. Ethan’s smiling about whatever they’re talking about, though he does have the decency to tuck his phone back into his pocket when it’s time to help unload the car.

“Georgia ‘n her gettin’ along or what?” Lucas hefts Ethan’s suitcase out for him, and he takes the handle.

“Yeah, they’re doing motorcycle stuff. Georgia’s teaching her and all that.”

Lucas sighs. “She was always derailin’ it when Dad was showin’ me the car.” He shuts the trunk and starts walking up the drive. Ethan is following, judging by the clunking and whir of wheels on concrete. “’Course that pissed him off good ‘cause I didn’t want nothin’ to do with the car, I was doin’. Science experiments, whatever I got up to.”

“Experiments?”

“…Any fun I could have with a dead rat.”

Ethan just hums. “Well, she’s having a good time now, turning into a motorhead, I guess.”

He licks over his teeth, pinches his tongue between them. ‘Course Daddy’s favorite’s a little less maladjusted. “Good for her, then.”

Lucas drops his luggage on his bedroom floor, showers off the sweat from the day before Zoe bothers dropping him a text too.

_welcome home dipshit_

_yeah fuck off_

_was missouri all that and more??_

_it was fine i dunno what you wanna hear / its fuckin late i been driving all night so yea_

_you dont have to stay up on my account / but im having lunch with ethan some time will you go with?_

Lucas stares at the screen, laying down in bed by then and close to passing out.

_will see_

\---

He starts accepting a lot more repair jobs now that they’re back home again. He needs something to keep his head busy lately, because it wanders to places he’d rather not go otherwise. And he does love this work. Small tinkerings and delicate pieces that he knows his way around expertly. It leaves less time for his own creations, but he hasn’t been all that inspired lately. The work gives him other things to think about than why that is.

Ethan still visits too. Coming down, sitting on his stool and chatting about whatever. Dinner, work, sometimes music. They have wildly different tastes, usually, but on a lucky occasion they’ll find something they can agree on. Ethan likes _Jesus Gonna Be Here,_ and Lucas likes a number of Depeche Mode songs. He listens to them a lot when he goes to bed, as he’s falling asleep. It somehow makes him wistful for a year ago—laying on an air mattress in a t-shirt that isn’t his. He buries his nose in the shirt he’s wearing now. Just the action itself can almost trigger the smell in his mind. Almost, almost, almost.

Zoe doesn’t quit pestering him about lunch. She gets Ethan in her clutches readily, so Lucas takes the pleasure of being harder to finagle into meeting. She gets him on the hook with barbeque eventually, which she doesn’t like very much, but he says _weeeeeeeeeelllllllllll okay!_ to. She looks a lot different when he sees her. Ethan spots her from a distance, running across the restaurant in an embarrassing way. Lucas takes longer to realize that Ethan’s charging the correct person. Her hair’s clipped back out of her face, is the first thing Lucas notices. The same length she’d had it at in Dulvey, bangs swooped backwards and pinned there. It’s more boyish than just her plain, not styled look. She’s wearing boots and denim too, and Lucas sort of wants to roll his eyes. Zoe hadn’t changed much in 22 years at home, and now she can’t keep the same look for five seconds—even gone by a different name. She’s smiling really wide too, which is probably what throws him off the most. Her cheeks are pink by the time she’s finished hugging Ethan…If it weren’t for how stiffly she took that hug, Lucas might not have identified her at all. The smile on her face fades a little when she looks to Lucas, but it doesn’t go away entirely yet.

“Didn’t think I’d be seein’ you for a while there.”

Lucas shrugs. “Can’t be assed to go where I don’t care for.”

This does make Zoe roll her eyes at him, which he does back with much more animation. Ethan nods to the table Zoe’d been sitting at. “This us, then?”

She smiles more again, sliding back into her seat with a quick _yeah_ and a _so_ that leads into a whole spiel she’s got ready about Georgia and motorcycles and blah blah blah. Lucas plops down next to Ethan, reclines in his seat and begins to scroll on his phone under the table. He’s halfway listening to the conversation, enough to know that Zoe seems fairly happy, and is enjoying herself these days. Her nails are painted black again—the only really feminine thing she’s got going on. Some glossy polish, smooth in the light and Lucas is a little jealous of it.

“—difficult conversations, but. It helps a lot, we’ve been putting in the work and we’re happy.” She’s saying, shrugging at the end of it and smiling with the left side of her mouth. Ethan’s enraptured, nodding along.

“I’m such a matchmaker, aren’t I?”

Zoe scoffs. “Oh, like you had any idea, you didn’t even introduce us!”

“I might’ve eventually!” Ethan’s waving her off, refusing her criticisms when the food arrives. Zoe’s got brisket on a bun, Ethan has…something that isn’t barbeque, and therefore bullshit. Lucas has pulled pork off the sandwich, just a hefty pile of meat that he can bathe in sauce and pick apart with his knife and fork.

“Well, that’s me, anyway.” Zoe starts cutting her sandwich in half. “I’m sure things have been fun in the Winters house, right?”

She’s looking at Ethan meaningfully, and Ethan laughs.

“No, actually, it’s been good.” Ethan’s touching his neck, saying that and obviously meaning something about Lucas. “How much about his arm did you hear, I can’t remember what all I’ve said.”

Zoe snorts, looking over to Lucas now. “Just a matter of time, right?”

Lucas shrugs.

“Guess maybe I was more prone to that sort,” Zoe continues. “Mama did yell at you for jumping down from the attic and not takin’ the ladder, though.”

“Mama always thought I was gonna get a twisted ankle in the swamp. From a root or somethin’.” He pulls a larger lump of pork from the pile, twisting his fork into it and using the knife to separate the muscles. “She would always bitch about it.”

Zoe flinches when Lucas says the last bit, and he can’t help but roll his eyes. He’s ready to lay into her about it, because come on, when has she ever cared that much about Mama? She was always Daddy’s favorite and never liked Marguerite more than she had to. Lucas would never call himself a Mama’s boy, because he was nobody’s favorite child, but at least she could manage to be a bit proud of such a terrible boy.

Zoe’s ready to lay into him too, because three years dead in Dulvey hadn’t been without a few encounters. She’d made a habit out of checking the steps to her trailer after Lucas had planted something there that blew her foot off. The mud caught her fall, and she had laid there for an hour, waiting for everything to grow back. It’d been the first and only limb she’d lost, making a point to not let it happen again after that. The feeling of loss was nothing compared to the shattering pain of reacquisition. The bone weaving itself together, veins stitching around the meat and sinew—the tendons reattaching, pulling themselves tight again. She’s not sure, but would bet that she’d been vomiting at some point.

_Gotcha Bitch_ , was the note left on her bed. Doing the math now, it was before The Connections, so she supposes Lucas can get off the hook for that one.

There’d also been a couple dinners she hadn’t managed to avoid. Only twice was she stupid enough to let herself get caught in time, and once, Lucas had been there too. He’d been beside Daddy, herself by Mama, trying her damnedest to look like she was eating. Her and Daddy made little noise; Mama chittered now and then, seizing up before shivering all over. Lucas was the loudest of the bunch, pelting Zoe with scraps off his own plate, never touching his silverware. He’d been content to stick his hands into it all, had found a long string of intestine which he whipped her with. It was wet and hot, squelching out something with the consistency of pesto that smelled too much like shit for her to be sure it wasn’t.

“Lucas!” Jack had screamed at him, up in his face before smashing a bottle over his head. Lucas and flinched away just slightly at the yelling, whined only petulantly when the glass broke on his skull.

“You quit playin’ with the food your Mama worked so hard to put on the table!” Marguerite nodded along wildly.

“Tell him, Jack, you tell him good!”

He’d smacked her hard on the back of the head, sending her nearly into her own plate. “You hush up too!”

Zoe had tensed to the point of trembling by then, averting her eyes after the second blow Jack dolled out that night. Lucas had looked only mildly annoyed, plucking shards from his scalp and flicking them across the room.

He did stop playing with his food after being told to--kicked her under the table instead, making sure she was looking up enough. Just in time to see as he’d driven a knife into his index finger. She’d cried out only briefly, turning her head away and biting her cheek as Jack slammed his fist on the table. Physical empathy made her corresponding hand throb, and Lucas kicked her again. She only looked for fear he’d be aiming at her.

He wasn’t, was in the middle of snapping half the finger off, having carved away the outer flesh. Bone splintered , and he lobbed the bloodied, mangled little thing at her. She looked away again, swallowing down her bile because if she dry heaved at dinner, she’d be fucking dead. Three more objects hit her head before Lucas gave up, sighing and audibly reclining.

“Stupid bitch.”

That’d been just a year before Ethan.

Zoe will always hate it; the power of a family. The shared trauma of it all, allegiances to illegal agencies be damned, she and Lucas will always be two sides of the same coin—being your parents’ child. It makes it too possible to love and hate him in the same breath. This is the sort of thing she might have cried over a few months back. Lately, it’s only been able to fire up some mild irritation. It’s just so messy, too convoluted and feel-y for her to want to tackle. Georgia’s the only reason she can put as many words to it as she can now.

In a paradoxical way, she loves Lucas for the same reason she can’t stand their mother. They grew up together, endured together, went hand in hand through the same shit. Least until Lucas got a bit more jaded in his later years, which she doesn’t even blame him for. But there’s a laundry list of reasons to hate him, reasons with first and last names, so she’ll do that too.

Lucas can tell—she can see that much on his face when he looks at her. It’s just tired disdain now. And in that expression, it’s almost as if he knows what it is that she sees in him. Lucas has shown up to lunch in his LCS hoodie, slouching, scrolling away at the table. Zoe never wanted to be their mother’s daughter. He’s a coward, still afraid to not be Daddy’s boy.

That Saturday is one of the lazy Saturdays that Lucas loves. By the time he wakes up, Ethan’s already on the couch. Still eating cereal, though, so they’ve both slept in. Ethan grins when he looks up.

“Good afternoon.”

“Is it?” Lucas glances to the microwave clock, pausing his beeline to the chips in the pantry. 11:58. “Bullshit, you liar.” He fishes around the snacks, getting his hands on some sour cream and onion flavor.

“Ew, wait—” Ethan grabs for the bag of chips Lucas is holding as he plants himself on the couch too. Lucas hugs them closer to his chest.

“I’m a big boy, Ethan, I can eat what I damn well please.”

Ethan gags at him, mocking contempt with such little bite it’s only comical. Lucas shoves a handful of chips into his mouth, pushes Ethan’s face away with his free hand.

It’s turning out to be a quiet day off. Which they all are, but. The feeling is different for this one…It has been, really, for a while. Lucas slinks off to the basement once he can’t busy himself with eating anymore. There’s a few phones in various states of being taken apart and put back together. Two are just screens, the other is a more specific mod he’s been commissioned for, but he’s able to occupy himself with it for long enough that he finishes all that too. He rolls one of his little screw drivers across the table, rests his face on the rubber work mat. 

They’d been a hate the sin, love the sinner type family, and going to church the pastor encouraged everyone to love thy neighbor and all that. There were other pastors in town that didn’t preach the same thing, which Lucas knew once he started elementary and heard the word fag for the first time, and understood in middle school when he got his ass beat for being...What, skinny, maybe? Not that it made much of a difference, because it _was_ a quote, in the end, when Lucas reminded Ethan that Jack Baker didn’t raise no queers. He hadn’t known anything back then, of course, but Zoe’s interest in hunting with her old man and the way Lucas turned down sports for robotics competitions weighed on him regardless. He’d been drunk when he said it, and thought it was just him and mama in the room. Lucas had been on the catwalk, listening quietly, because he worried for Marguerite when dad got to drinking. It hadn’t been said with hatred as much as worry and sorrow.

He didn’t care what his old man thought of him. That’s what he’d promised himself, anyway, when he locked himself indoors and threw himself more and more into his own experiments and inventions. But his daddy wanted a tough guy, and to Clancy Jarvis that’s what he was trying to be. And he can admit it now, with the distance from being shown up at his own game, that he’d never done a good job at that. He was scary, absolutely. But he never did kill with his hands, so he’s a failure at that too. And now back to this. Not even trying to be better than what his dad always thought of him. He’s running from something unavoidable. So maybe that’s why he’s so fucking depressed lately. Why his once coveted lazy Saturday feels like brushing his palm over an itch, when he wants to dig his fingernails in too deep to remove.

There’s a clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and Lucas does his best not to look mournful when he turns to look at Ethan. Blond, puppy eyed, apparently secure in his sexuality. He’s on his phone, not watching his step.

“Do you want to help cut carrots upstairs?”

Lucas’s eyes brighten without delay. “Oh, hell yeah.”

Ethan smiles, jerks his head toward the top of the stairs, and Lucas bounds up two steps at a time.

\---

He has a terrible dream that night. If he won’t willingly confront it, then his brain will do it for him.

The dream starts with him waking up, knowing in an instinctive dream way that he’s in his old room, tiny bed and all. With somebody, even. Somebody who must be Ethan, because he rolls over so they’re face to face, so he can properly wrap his arms around the man beside him. It’s so much better that way. As he’s nuzzling into the chest in front of him, though, there’s a murmur of giggles and whispers. When he squeezes Ethan tighter against it, the hushed giggling turns to full laughter—loud enough that it sounds like a crowd, and he can’t help opening his eyes.

The two of them are in his old bed, yes, but not in the room they belong in. They’re in the high school gymnasium. And it’s fucking packed, brim filled with people whose faces he recognizes, whose names he doesn’t know because these people would never give him the light of day. Some of them are pointing. Groups of boys gag amongst themselves, and girls avert their eyes.

He rolls away before he can think, ends up cracking his tailbone on the wood floor for his efforts. Ethan peers down over the edge of the bed at him, face done up in concern and the air pressure drops as the crowd uses it all up for laughter. Lucas just stumbles to his feet, blindly taking off out of the gym and down the halls. He’s running faster than he ever has in his life, but it takes him three strides to make it one foot. It’s fucking torture. He needs to get away. He’s so sure of it, so sure that if he can’t make it out of here he’ll die, he’ll—

“Lucas!”

His sneakers squeak on the tile as he skids to a stop. Ethan’s jogging behind him, making the distance with hardly half the effort Lucas had been putting in. He grabs Lucas’s shoulder once he catches up.

“Why are you leavin’?”

“There’s—” Lucas is panting, can’t speak through the breaths he’s taking. “Everyone’s watchin’, I can’t.”

“You’re gonna leave me?” For some reason this Ethan speaks with an accent too, drawling in a way that’s unnatural for his face. The expression he’s wearing is pained, and his whole face is flushed and blotchy. Not from the effort of running, but because he’s visibly near tears. Just the sight of him is making Lucas’s bottom lip tremble.

“No, no, of course not.” Lucas grabs for his hands, taking them both. “I can’t leave you,” he drops his voice low, rubbing circles on the back of Ethan’s hands with his thumbs. “C’mon, come with me, okay?”

Ethan shakes his head, pulling away. “You ain’t stayin’ with me.”

“I can’t—”

“You _won’t_!” Ethan screams, correcting him with a finger jab to his chest. The impact of it feels off, results in a wet, squelching noise. When Lucas looks down, he’s shirtless, and his skin is splotched with green and brown patches of mold. Some of the flesh is beginning to slip off his body, and Ethan’s finger has sunken in down to the knuckle. “You _afraid_? Afraid of some kids?”

Lucas shakes his head hard enough that he can feels his eyes bounce in their sockets. His skin must be loosening around there too. “Yes—” he says, against his own volition. “You have to help me, I’m—”

Ethan shakes his head, pushing them apart. Lucas feels something dislodge inside him, and keels over.

“I’m so tired of helpin’ you.”

He wheezes, cries out when Ethan takes him by his wrists to drag him back to the gym.

“Just one more time, okay?” He’s murmuring, voice cotton soft and sweet to match. “I’ll do this for you one more time, baby.” Lucas’s body slides easily, leaving a wet, rust and mucus colored trail behind. Pieces of his flesh keep peeling off, torn away by the friction. It makes the fluid of the streak chunky, less soupy and more stew-ish. By the time Ethan’s got him back in the gym, he can feel his newly exposed spine bumping against the linoleum.

Everyone in the bleachers cheers and screams when they enter, rising up out of their seats and clapping for more of the spectacle. Somehow, Ethan’s unbothered by the fuss, dropping Lucas in the middle of the floor. He’s set on his goal; straddles Lucas’s hips and splays his fingers over what’s left of his chest. The soured meat there can be pushed aside like clay, and Ethan is digging his fingers into the rot and shoveling handfuls of it out of the chest cavity. There’s chanting from the crowd now, more urgent the deeper he gets. When Ethan plunges his hand inside, through the ribcage, it tickles when his fingers graze a lung—but he’s fishing around for something else, churning and sloshing in the mess of blood and acid, elbow deep. Lucas throws his head back in fucking _ecstasy_.

He wakes up before the scene can finish, jolting in bed, cold and sweaty. It’s still dark out, the time unclear. The clock on his phone tells him, once his eyes adjust, that’s it’s five in the morning. He puts a hand to himself, feeling across his sternum; half to feel his pulse, half to make sure he’s not still a pudding consistency. Thankfully, he’s as firm as he’d otherwise expect, though his heart beating for a marathon. He wipes his hand across his forehead. It’s damp, and when he tugs at his shirt to blot his upper lip, that stirs up a musty, dirty laundry smell, topped off with a high note of anxiety induced body odor. Certainly not too early for a shower, right? Ethan wakes up at six, usually. If the water running at five gets him, he can’t be too mad…Still, Lucas keeps the temperature tepid. The pipes rattle a little louder when it’s hot.

Standing under the water with his eyes shut tight, he scrubs hard at his scalp, across his stomach and chest. The temperature is a deal shy of comfortably warm and he starts to shiver, still refusing to turn it up. He’s more than a little frustrated with himself

It’s not anything he doesn’t know. Yeah, he’s scared. Scared out of his fucking mind by—By a lot. What feels like everything, sometimes. And he’s in this horrible limbo now, of knowing what the issues are, but still feeling tied down to the obligations they beg of him. Half of the time he resents the way it feels as if his mind hasn’t left Missouri’s liminal hotel laws. The other half, he hates his body for being here instead.

The last thing he wants is to be weak. He knows he’s failed at that goal many times, has partially given it up, but. He hasn’t resigned that pilar of masculinity in its entirety, as much as he needs to.

What kind of bravery is it, that he’s pursuing? Tamping everything down into place with brute force instead of taking the time to untangle it all. He’ll build his machines, he’ll vie for the attention of another man, for that man’s touch, for his smell. He’ll quietly fall in love with the colors brown and warm gold, with nothing to show for it, calling that the bravery that’s becoming of an independent, well-bred and raised Southern boy.

It’s probably cosmic irony, that his bravery requires weakness first. Weakness, the open vulnerability of being seen—the kind that scares him the most--and affection with a man that. That, after a fashion, yeah, maybe he does have some feelings for.

Fucking ‘maybe’. It’s bullshit and he knows it. For Ethan, he’s got it as bad as anyone ever has. For the guy who forgives him too much, who takes him in and feeds him and clothes him and when it came to it, fucking bathed him, yeah. And in return for all that, he’s—

Rotting, still. Stuck and buried, wallowing, wasting away in the coffin he’s so married to lying in.

Everything’s been enough, for a while. Tantrums, bloody fantasies, then real people. Ethan’s suspicion, his fleeting affections. He’s gotten by on substitutes for a long time, but he’s so tired of it now. Of trying to not be a person, to shed his humanity like it’s only a costume he can’t be bothered to wear. Nothing’s going to be enough now. 

He’s pitifully needy, he thinks, sinking to the floor of the shower, arms around himself. He doesn’t even want everyone’s eyes on him anymore, he doesn’t want the hollow gaze of scolding, or fear, or contempt. Lucas just wants to be held. Certainly, it’s not that strange, to feel like that. Ethan seems to know, even. Ethan’s put up with so much, and maybe only because he knows. He’s been predictable; Lucas is sure of that much now. He’s been a variable through a formula, ready now to be spat out the other end to the conclusion.

\---

Like most things in his life, he doesn’t have a plan for this. He stumbles into it clumsily instead.

By the time he’s done in the shower, dried and clothed in a fresh cotton shirt and boxers, Ethan has gotten up too. He’s already in the kitchen once Lucas comes out.

He’s using his whispery morning voice when he asks “Shit, did I wake you up?”

Lucas shakes his head. “Naw, I’ve been up.”

“Well. I can make us breakfast, then. Or are you just saying goodnight?” Ethan gives him a gingerly disapproving look with that last comment.

“Ain’t been awake _that_ long.” He leans back against the counter. “I’ll take some eggs, though.” He’s trying his best to act natural. Slouch the right amount, let his eyes wander around enough, but not wildly. That sort of thing. When he’s handed his plate of scrambled eggs, though, he can’t do anything but stare at them. It just makes him want to cry, what with where his head’s at. Ethan’s given him fucking everything by now, and here he is, cooking Lucas breakfast after that. For some reason he’s thinking about the last math class he took, a calculus course. There are infinites that are bigger than others, he’d been told. Ethan’s ability to just keep giving and giving would be one of those, one of the infinities you add onto and keep growing. Lucas has an uncanny ability to soak all that infinity up. If he weren’t so thinly strung, he might actually start crying over it. Instead, he’s just quiet.

His silence doesn’t go unnoticed. Ethan keeps casting him concerned glances between bites, and Lucas eventually catches him in the act.

They’re staring at each other, in the blueish pre-sunrise light coming through the windows, with unstyled hair and messy pajamas. Ethan swallows.

“Hey.” Which is all he says. It’s one third greeting, one third question, and last third a _c’mon._ Lucas takes. He sets his plate down, fully cold now, and Ethan does the same. So yeah, it’s familiar territory after Missouri. But at least for the next five seconds, Lucas knows exactly what to do.

He backs Ethan up, just a few steps until they’ve hit the wall, with Ethan sandwiched between him and plaster. He’s grabbed Ethan without realizing it, knuckles white on his shoulders. Lucas is an inch taller than him suddenly—Ethan’s gone weak in the knees, slid down the wall enough that Lucas is looking down to his eyes.

They’re wide, so stupidly brown and soft to match his hair. The fact that he’s somehow managing to do his wonderful, divine god damn bitch face right now, of all moment, makes him perfect. Lucas’s breath wavers.

“You have girly lips.”

He’s not gonna be perfect the first time, resigns himself to blurting that out to save face in a way. He hopes they’ll have time to practice. Calling Ethan his boyfriend is something he wants to get comfortable with.

“Huh?” Is Ethan’s response to that. Lucas can’t blame him.

“Nothin’.”

When Lucas’s mouth presses to his neck, Ethan’s knees give out the rest of the way. He’s held up only by the pressure of Lucas against him.

It feels like a jump, at first, Ethan thinks, to go for the neck. Overtly erotic, a little overzealous in a pleasing way. But he realizes, as Lucas’s teeth drag across his skin, catching it just slightly before allowing it to bounce back, that this is the entire opposite. Lucas is too afraid to kiss him.

It means the same thing—means more, really, because each time a fang hooks into the flesh, it’s a measured action to release without piercing through. _Look at me not hurting you,_ is what it says _. Watch me. Watch me being gentle with you._ It demands his attention. And of course, that’s something Lucas can always have.

When Lucas does pull back, he’s shaking and wet-eyed, mouth hanging open with uncertainty. His lips are wet too, pinker now than before.

If you asked Ethan a year ago whether he thought he’d ever see Lucas scared, he would have told you that emotion wasn’t even in the man’s repertoire. Now, he’s so unbelievably glad to see it. Maybe Lucas has rubbed off on him; Ethan’s unnaturally fucking excited to see him be laid bare like this. Scared and showing it. It takes a few times of Lucas tugging on his hands for him to snap back from being so elated, to recognize that he’s being asked for comfort. He blinks, shaking his head and immediately knitting his brow.

“Oh—hey, no, I know.” He moves his arms around Lucas’s neck, and his waist is likewise encircled. None of Lucas’s breathing comes without a tremble in it, and Ethan closes his eyes when he does finally sob in earnest.

“Ethan--”

“I know.” He smooths a hand over Lucas’s hair, hair he’s washed before. God, he wants to do that again. He misses that broken arm phase so much. Back then, Lucas couldn’t hide it, couldn’t hide being so vulnerable and it forced him into the open. And now that’s getting offered to him on a fucking silver platter and it’s ten times better that way. He hates cannibal metaphors, but Ethan really could eat up this soft, underbelly part of him.

Lucas sniffles, and Ethan can feel where tears are wetting his shirt all the way through. It’s cute somehow, in a way it shouldn’t be. Because of course it is. With Lucas, everything is like that. He’s nosing further into Ethan’s shoulder, eyes shut tight and mouth shut tighter against apologizing for this. It’s necessary, it’s fine, it’s. Good, even. Maybe. Yeah? He nips again at Ethan’s neck before squeezing him more. Ethan responds by trying to make a fist in Lucas’s hair. It’s too short and thinned for any of that, but the sentiment feels nice anyway; Lucas does another crying hiccup because of it. Ethan hums, leans his head against Lucas’s.

They’re standing there long enough that Lucas is worried he’s dozed off when Ethan presses against his chest, putting a little space between them. He must look panicked when they can see each other’s faces again, because Ethan pouts at him. Already, that’s a relief.

“I’ve got like. Five minutes before I have to go.”

Oh. Yeah.

“…Take me with?”

Ethan laughs, shakes his head. “You know I can’t, c’mon.”

Which is true. But Lucas feels better even just for asking, because now he’s been able to hear the implicit ‘wish I could’ of Ethan’s answer. Not that it makes him want to let go any more. But Ethan needs to get through his heavy burden of a morning routine in record time, so he does. He swears he can feel the reluctance creaking out of his joints as they release his grip on the hem of Ethan’s shirt.

“You look like you should get some more sleep.”

Lucas nods. “Um. I’ll take a nap or somethin’.”

“Good.” Ethan takes his hand and squeezes it, drops it slow so the contact is maximized. “I’ve. I have to get ready, but. I’ll be back like normal and all that.”

Lucas nods, drops his head slightly in the direction of the bedrooms. “Go be prissy, I ain’t gonna make you late.”

Ethan smiles at that, if a bit sadly, only casting one forlorn glance over his shoulder as he goes. Lucas stands around until he’s out of sight, then lurks off to his own room to lay down. He doesn’t want to have to see Ethan leave.

He lays awake, even though he feels tired after crying and. All that. Ethan not being able to stay doesn’t help, but that’s not his fault. It _is_ his fault that Lucas can’t stop thinking about how that felt. Because holy _shit,_ he’s actually done it, and it felt _good_. He was dreading that it might, because he was certain it would. What other people taste like isn’t entirely foreign to him, and he’s avoided keeping himself familiar in the past three years, but tasting Ethan Winters like that is nice. Ethan showers at night, so his skin has had time to start tasting more like sweat once it’s morning. Kind of salty, kind of…warm, and just vaguely metallic from blood rushing to the surface. He’d probably taste more bitter after a shower, like soap. Lucas knows already he’s going to like the slightly dirty, natural taste a lot more.

Jesus, he’s getting too ahead of himself, though. Ethan hadn’t even said he’d liked it, let alone condoned any sort of sequel to Lucas Baker’s Half-Assed Macking Session. He clicks his phone on. It’s 8:35. So, thirty more minutes until eight hours of waiting. He smashes his face into his pillow and groans.

\---

Ethan’s keyed up on the drive home. Work is at least distracting enough that his mind can’t wander every five seconds, but the route back is too routine for any luxury of that sort. He keeps getting cold and hot, and his hands are tingling for some reason too. He feels guilty about leaving, but. This is going to be a whole conversation, not something they can get into five minutes before Ethan’s got to go to work.

Still, he spends a couple minutes sitting in his car after he pulls up. Lucas had at least seemed understanding of the bad timing. And it’s not like Ethan’s even worried about Lucas being mad; in a year, he’s demonstrated the ability to be a reasonable person. Ethan’s just nervous over making what should be, like. A totally magical, amazing moment for Lucas an awkward and painful memory instead. The fact that any sort of reciprocation will be mind-blowing doesn’t occur to his rattled inner-monologue.

Lucas is on the couch inside, eyes trained on him by the time he enters the kitchen. Ethan gives a brief, pursed-lip smile, holds his hands up guiltily.

“Sorry I bounced on you like that.”

Lucas shrugs. “I’ll be the first to admit I ain’t someone who thinks shit through, I think that’s on me.”

Ethan gives a noncommittal bob of his head. “You did spring it on me.”

“The moment struck me, what can I say?” Lucas crosses his arms, leaning back into the couch. “We got like. Sparks, or chemistry, or somethin’.”

“We do have chemistry.” Ethan grins as he speaks, coming to sit next to Lucas in the living room. “Can I say, though, you’re. Handling this a lot better than I thought you might.”

Lucas’s responding laugh is wry, and he puts up his hands. They’re shaking again.

“Naw, but,” he drops his hands down, clasping them together in his lap. “I’m. I am glad that I did it. I ain’t gonna pussyfoot ‘round it no more, I can do better’n that.”

Ethan finds himself a little awestruck by that insight. Lucas looks embarrassed for even having said it, face pinked up and not making eye contact anymore. But it’s certainly progress, from the man who used to make impotent threats of murder at the prospect of even a basic level of care. 

“How come you didn’t kiss me?”

Lucas turns redder. “I ain’t kissed a dude before.” He glances over at Ethan, eyes not wandering in an obviously restrained way. He looks away.

“So, what, you’re afraid you’ll be bad at it?”

A shrug. “Kinda, ‘s part of it.”

Ethan ducks his head so their eyes can meet again. “You know I won’t mind if you’re not good, right?”

Lucas scoffs, but he knows he’s staring at Ethan’s lips now. “I find that kinda hard to believe.” A length of silence, then he swallows. “…You gotta blame yourself if you don’t like it, okay?” It’s said like a condition, but he’s already leaning forward.

Ethan nods, not giving Lucas any more time for disclaimers before cupping his jaw. He kisses Lucas’s cheek first, catching just the corner of his lips like a warning before kissing him properly on the mouth. Ethan’s still for a moment, giving him time to adjust. Or back out, even, if he changes his mind. Lucas doesn’t do anything, just breathes heavily out his nose in short, panicky bursts. Ethan pets down his side, pulls back just enough to speak.

“You need to stop or are you just nervous?”

“Nervous.” Lucas’s voice is clipped, but Ethan will trust him.

“More, or the same?”

“…More’s okay.”

Ethan nods, kisses him again the same way for a while. Lucas relaxes into it more this time, follows Ethan’s lead when he tilts his head. It’s just lips pressed against each other, slightly locked from the angle, but the calm of it is nice anyway. When Ethan opens his mouth a bit, Lucas twitches away just for a second. He presses back as soon as he’s done it, lips parted as Ethan’s demonstrated. Ethan risks opening his eyes for a moment.

He can tell Lucas’s face is scrunched up, even when they’re this close, his nose wrinkled in concentration for the task at hand. It’s cute enough that Ethan’s got to close his eyes again. He licks across Lucas’s bottom lip, and dutifully Lucas opens his mouth a little wider. 

Lucas’s teeth click against his own inexpertly, and Ethan knows it’s entirely possible that Lucas hasn’t kissed _anyone_ before. He was still young when he was infected, and friendless, if Lucas’s own account of his life is anything to go by. It becomes more and more plausible, the more Ethan thinks about it, that yeah, this is entirely a first for him. So it’s amateurish, of course, but Ethan just does his best to coach as they go, pulling away slightly when they bump like that, turning his head more to force Lucas to follow suit. It doesn’t turn him off as much as he kind of adores it. Lucas is a bad kisser with no delusions about being some kind of Adonis, and to be the one who gets to have Lucas listening, and so acquiescent, makes it hard to not be too fervent.

At any rate, Lucas’s confidence picks up a little more for every second Ethan’s not pulling away. Before long, his hands are wandering. He flattens his fingers out across Ethan’s chest, slides down to a spot just above his belly. Even with a shirt in the way, Lucas finds the scar there quickly. He runs his thumb along it, pressing into the denser than usual tissue. Ethan freezes at first, relaxing slowly into the feeling. It’s a new part of him. One he’s not used to in this sort of context. Lucas is fixated on it; he repeats the arc over and over, and his body deflates a little each time.

“I—” Lucas bites the inside of his cheek against the confession that’s about to come spilling out of him. That feels like too much right now, maybe save the ‘Oh, by the way, here’s how I cranked it to you in detail’ stories for another time. “I think I’m kinda obsessed with you,” is what he opts for instead. It’s still a weird, loaded confession, but more on theme for what’s been happening.

“I am too,” Ethan admits in turn, and he moves the hand that’s been on Lucas’s shoulder to his cheek again. He thumbs at the stubble there like Lucas has been poking at his scar. It’s rough, pointy and sharp, and it jabs painfully into the uncalloused pad of his finger every time he moves. “With you, I mean.”

“Figured.” Lucas tests his new skills, leaning back into a kiss where Ethan can feel that he’s smiling at his own smart-ass comment. Ethan takes it like a challenge, pushing back and taking Lucas’s bottom lip between his teeth. Lucas sucks down a breath through his nose—something tellingly close to a gasp. He takes a fistful of Ethan’s shirt at the breast, pulling on it hard like he can force even more of that feeling through proximity alone. It’s an uncoordinated effort, and he throws himself backwards with his own force. They’re disconnected for a moment and have to adjust. Lucas is on his back now, so Ethan is glad to take back the lead by straddling his hips, held in place by a leg Lucas has looped behind his own. Ethan indulges him in a new, better kind of torture: still kissing slow.

Lucas can feel himself being more responsive than feels appropriate. He can’t help it—he’s affection-starved and being the center of Ethan’s attention like this…he’s gonna lose it. He’s not sure if he should be, but he’s embarrassed to be as hard as he is just for being kissed.

In his defense, Ethan’s incredibly good at what he’s doing, having picked up on the fact that, at the end of the day, Lucas is a downright masochist. Perks of getting with a formerly married man, he supposes. At the thought, the same part of him that gets off on smelling like Ethan gets fired up, and he moans as Ethan bites down on his lip again. He reaches up, knotting his fingers into that unfairly pretty blonde hair. It’s amazingly soft, like he knew it would be. Ethan uses all those products. Regret takes hold in his gut before he can do anything about it. Not that the past year has been wasted time, but he can’t believe this is the first time he’s felt that. He’s spent all this time trying to get out from Ethan’s thumb, and now what he really wants is to crawl right back under.

At some point, Ethan gets a little too risky. His hand is hovering over Lucas’s inner thigh when Lucas catches his wrist hard.

“I.” He’s staring down at where he’s grabbing Ethan’s hand. “That. That’s the limit, I ain’t--”

“That’s okay,” Ethan rushes the words out. “Sorry, I should’ve known.”

Lucas shakes his head. “Nah, I.” He takes a deep breath, shaken, obviously. Ethan waits for him to finish the thought, but it never comes.

“…Want me off you?”

There’s a gap of a few seconds before Lucas nods. “Keep holding me, though.” He sits up as Ethan moves to sit cross-legged, and plunks himself down in Ethan’s lap like he owns the place. He wraps both his legs around Ethan’s waist, scooting forward until they’re chest to chest, and rests his head in Ethan’s neck once more. Ethan blushes at the position, because he can feel, pressed up against his stomach, that Lucas is definitely hard for this. That feels a lot dirtier when they aren’t horizontal, he supposes. Like he’s witness to it out of the appropriate context now, privy to the secret that yeah, Lucas gets off with guys.

“Can feel yours too, so don’t give me no shit.”

Ethan laughs loudly. “I wasn’t going to say anything, don’t worry.” He turns his head enough to kiss Lucas’s temple. It makes Lucas smile too, wide and genuine. Ethan can tell just by the way it feels against his neck that it’s beautiful. 


	6. Afterward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW in this u_u So WATCH OUT

Ethan’s a summer baby. His birthday is later in June, the 30th, which makes him a Cancer. It also means any sort of birthday celebration he has with his friends has to be out on the beach. He asked Lucas about it, the week before, if he felt okay going to a birthday party of any sorts. Lucas had been down in the basement, tapping at his chin with a screwdriver. He’s been building a Rube Goldberg machine with a lot of custom bits, about halfway done after a month of work.

“Mmmmmmmaybe,” he flicks the tool across the room. “Who’s there?”

“You’ll probably only know a few of them.”

Lucas’s lip curls. “Zo’?”

“…Yeah, maybe. But Alex and Tom too, sooo. It’s your call.”

“Ooh, see, you’re makin’ this difficult for me.” He crosses his arm. “Where, then?”

“Well, you might want to wear shorts, it’s on the b—”

He groans, throwing his head back and sliding off his stool to the floor. “Ethaaaaaan.”

“What!” Ethan grins, efforts to not edge the display on in vain.

“Don’t make meeeeee…”

“I’m not, I’m just asking!”

“But you know I’m gonna say ‘yes’, it ain’t fair.”

Ethan’s smile gets smaller, but happier at the same time. A month later doesn’t feel as long as it sounds in his head, and he still gets giddy every time Lucas shows a little affection. Especially through words. Words were the last bit of love language to come out of him, the hardest part and therefore the most rewarding.

“You can wear a jacket, though, it cools down after the sun sets.”

Lucas flashes a quick smile, with teeth of course.

(Ethan gets another Lucas birthday breakfast the morning of—minus any robotic guests. When he asks if there’s cake too, Lucas waves his hand flippantly. There may or may not be, he’s told. Just ask if you need anything out of the fridge, though.)

Ethan gets them to the beach fashionably late—a few people are already milling around in the weird, concrete to wood to sand transition area where you can park. Tom is there, Lucas recognizes. The rest of them are strangers, though Ethan’s glad to see them. Lucas leans over as they approach.

“What did we say my name was to these people?”

“You’re Zach.”

He cringes. “I said that?”

“I would’ve stuck with Marcus,” Ethan whispers back, smiling and waving as they get too close to talk any more. A brown-haired man meets them a quarter of the way, clapping Ethan on the back. Lucas figures pretty quickly by the conversation he starts that he’s a colleague, which efficiently hedges Lucas out of the mix. Tom notices, takes the opportunity to snatch him up.

“Hey! Been a minute, huh?” Tom extends a hand, palm up, which Lucas assumes he’s supposed to clap. He does so, glancing over his shoulder and not caring if the worry is evident on his face. Getting separated so early on wasn’t his ideal vision of tonight.

“Yuh—yeah. Uh. Where’s Alex?”

Tom nods to the beach. “He’s outta here, he wants to bury me in the sand so he’s diggin’.”

“Ah.” Lucas stuffs his hand back into his pocket. “Um. Cool.”

Tom gives him an apologetic look, and Lucas remembers why he let these guys have his number. They aren’t total idiots. Tom possesses a great quality of social gracefulness, which Lucas finds himself lacking in. “Go get him, he’ll wanna see you guys.”

Lucas nods, yanking his hood up over his head.

Walking along the wood path to the beach takes a while. It’s winding for some reason Lucas can’t identify. Way out on the beach, there’s a sprawling number of people dotted out across the sand. It’s impossible to tell who all belongs to the Winters party, and Lucas starts fiddling with the zipper on his hoodie. Self-soothing, is what Ethan called it. Because he’s an anxious person, prone to filling up with too much nervous energy. He tucks his nose into the shoulder of the jacket, feels better with the smell of detergent.

Alex is dead-on from the walkway, just further out where the sand is a little damp, and will hold itself into the tomb shape he’s currently digging away at. Lucas cups his hands around his mouth.

“Yo!”

Alex’s head lifts, and Lucas raises an arm, waving it around. He can’t hear anything, if Alex speaks, but he can see Alex point before he stands, starts jogging across the beach to meet him. More sand is kicked up the closer he gets, until he’s within slapping range, and he promptly delivers one to Lucas’s shoulder.

“Zach! Shit, what the hell?”

Lucas does a polite smile. Alex goes in for a quick hug, smacking him on the back a few times.

“Seriously, you came? I didn’t think I’d see you again, you never texted back.”

Cool. Yeah. “Um. Yeah, I don’t. Really—”

“Not a texter?”

“…Nah.” Lucas glances around. There’s some reeds or grass, something growing in the sand beside them.

Alex nods, pursing his lips into an understanding, sage expression. “I get it.” Then he winks. “Like my grandma, right?”

“Uh.”

“I’m _joking_.” Alex rolls his eyes, bobbles his head back and forth. Lucas can also see why this guy got his number, though he doesn’t really trust the logic anymore. “So, Ethan’s with you?”

Lucas nods. “Yup. He’s…like, with them. Up the dock thing, I dunno if everyone’s here or what.”

“Who all’s there?”

He scoffs. “What, like I know every fuckin’ asshole up there?”

Alex just laughs. “Right? Whatever, fuck it. You wanna put me in the hole?”

So, scratch that. Lucas’s logic is still way sound. “Hell yeah, let’s do it.”

Alex whoops, turning on his heel to run back to the pit and essentially dive bomb into it. Lucas follows, hands in his pockets, and begins to kick sand back into the hole. It’s not a very efficient effort, even when he opts to slide his foot across the ground and shovel it like that.

“Use your hands, get in there,” Alex chimes from a foot below.

“Don’t wanna get my jacket sandy, I ain’t gettin’ down there.”

“Is that the jacket Ethan got you?”

Lucas’s foot stops. He furrows his brow. “How’d you figure?”

“He told me you liked it.”

“…Oh.” Another kick. His throat’s already gone a little dry, just at the thought. “Ethan talk ‘bout me much?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Alex doesn’t look up while he’s talking. He shuffles in place, patting down the loose sand around him. “Zach, you’re a bit of a legend, because he _never_ shuts up about you. When you broke your arm, no one heard the end of that.”

Lucas is glad that Alex is too focused on the sand, because he can just _feel_ how red he’s gotten. Ethan and Lucas, Lucas and Ethan, as a pair. He’d requested, after they’d kissed each other silly, that they make no announcements about anything. Not that they needed to keep it in the dark, or anything. Lucas had forced himself to understand the regressive nature of that, as a movement in opposition to what he’s trying to do. But he’s by no means equipped to deal with some grand Coming Out just yet, so they’ll let the information trickle out as it becomes relevant. From the context of what Alex is saying, it’s clear all this talk is from before everything, but. Still. Any thought of them going hand in hand still has a kind of power over him. Makes his heart race a little uncomfortably.

He’s just working on it at the moment.

“Ethan’s—” ‘Lame’ is the word on his tongue, at first. “Sweet.”

Alex looks up just briefly, sardonic smile on his face. “He’s lame like that.”

Lucas laughs, kicks a big lump of sand into Alex’s chest.

“Hey, shithead.”

Lucas’s expression neutralizes immediately. He drops his head back at the third voice, over his shoulder. He supposes Ethan warned him about this. For once, at least, Zoe doesn’t look much different between now and the last time he saw her. Hair pinned back, t-shirt, cargo shorts. _Stereotypical, Zo’, c’mon._

“This is a private party,” Lucas drawls off, waving her away. “Go on, get.”

“You’re _so_ cute.” She looks down at the hole, from which Alex’s head is now the only body part visible. “Heya.”

“Hi, Zoe.” He looks down at himself. “I uh. I’d wave, but. Y’know.”

Lucas glances back up the beach. No one’s coming down to follow him yet.

“Uhm. I was ‘posed to get y’all, but. Think I’m gonna get the party down here, y’all mind?”

“I’m not going nowhere,” Alex offers helpfully.

“I’ll walk with ya,” is Zoe’s response, less helpful. But present company doesn’t lend Lucas the best environment to put up much of a fight, so he can only glare before he nods, walking off with his sister in tow. He walks with a pace like he’s trying to shake her off.

“So,” Zoe speaks up, only once they’re on the path. “How’s shit?”

“It ain’t changed much.” Which is a lie, but.

“Specifically, though, c’mon.” She rolls her eyes. “You ain’t talked much on the phone or last time I saw you. What about Missouri? I never really got an answer as to what that was even about.”

“It was _about_ something?” Lucas wavers his voice mockingly. “That’d be news to me.”

“Well, did you do anything fun or what?”

Lucas pauses, nose tipped up to the sky. “Smoked again.”

She laughs. “Aw, shit, Lucas.”

“What, are you doin’ any better?” He lulls his head to the right, facing her.

“Ninety days ish.”

To her surprise, Lucas hurrahs at that. “Ha, so I beat you!”

She furrows her brow. “No, you. You’re at like 35 days at best, I’m beating you.”

He shakes his head. “Nuh-uh-uh, you caved first, I ain’t smoked since we been here until then.”

Zoe feels her eyes go wide. “Wait, you went a year?”

He nods. “Ethan got pissed, though, said I stank. So. I still have the rest of the pack, ain’t been back into it yet. I won’t, I don’t think.” He’s moved on, apparently, from the winning thing. But Zoe can hardly believe that. She’s had more than one cigarette in the last six months, and she always figured she was better off than her brother was in pretty much every sense. They’re just destructive in different ways, apparently.

“—lamer than I thought, so it ain’t my thing no more. ’Sides Ethan would fuckin’. Kill me, to put it lightly.”

Zoe purses her lips. Lucas looks to her a little more pointedly.

“What?” The annoyed crinkle in the bridge of his nose is already starting to show.

“He wouldn’t even yell at you, are you kiddin’?”

Lucas scoffs. “Ethan—well.” He feels himself begin to go pink over the fact that he’s already stammering. “He’d be—”

“What, he’d be disappointed?”

“He’d be mad--!”

“Since when did you get so worried ‘bout how disappointed someone is in you, huh? You doin’ Mama Ethan proud?” Zoe grabs the back of his neck, jostling him. He smacks her away, hard on the wrist and then on the head for good measure. She only laughs at him. “You’re pissed ‘cause you know I’m right. Ethan can’t be mad at you, I don’t think, he likes you too much to get mad-mad.”

Lucas snarls at the insinuation that Ethan likes him to any degree, which is a verifiable fact.

Telling Zoe isn’t something he’d banned Ethan from doing. It would’ve felt unfair, as much as he sort of wishes he could’ve. If they’re allowed to talk about it, though, Ethan should be able to tell his best friend. But Lucas is sure that if Ethan told her, he would have heard about it. Just some kind of heads up, so it feels impossible that she’s heard. And yet, what she’s doing feels so much like a knowledgeable razzing, it’s uncanny. He supposes that’s siblings for you. She can get under his skin in just the right way. He tightens his glare.

Zoe’s frowning at him back. “We always gotta fight when we talk, huh? I guess that’s why we don’t do it a lot no more.”

“Wouldn’t be a fight if you ain’t teased me so damn much.”

“Oh, right, because it’s _so_ awful, to think you’ve got some decent fuckin’ emotions.” She huffs, putting her hands on her hips, and looks at her feet. “See, that’s the problem though, is that you _do_ think like that, don’tcha? Can’t even fuckin’ joke about how ridiculous you sound because. Because that _is_ you, Lucas.” Zoe turns her face back up to scowl more properly at him, like anger could snap him into being a better person. She knows it can’t. That’s why he’s this way in the first place.

To her complete and utter shock, though, he isn’t glaring back. He looks—like. Sorta broken up about it. Her face drops instantly, and he looks away just as quick.

“Uhm.” He bites the inside of his cheek, kicks at the wood beneath their feet. “No, that’s. You’re right.”

“…Oh.” She blinks. What, like she’s prepared to have a serious discussion about this? He’s supposed to be scoffing this off, walking away. “I mean, I know I am.”

He rolls his eyes at her, a more proper look of watered-down disdain crossing his features. “Well yeah, but I’m sayin’ I know you are too.”

Which is a far cry from their mother’s stubborn, heated silences Zoe’s known him to be prone to. She doesn’t really know what to say to that, exactly.

“You have some kinda come to Jesus moment, what’s wrong with you?”

He laughs at that. For a moment it feels like she’s successfully popped the tension, but he’s looking dour again not a second later. Visibly contemplating.

Zoe would be right _—_ is right, to assume he knows what she sees in him. It makes the shock understandable; she’s seeing the same man admit being wrong. That doesn’t mean Lucas is particularly _good_ at such a concession, in all fairness to her. But he’s trying not to be that way anymore. He ain’t his father’s son, and… And he’s doing his damnedest to be proud of it.

“Nah, but. Uh.” He sighs, eyes shifting left and right, to make sure they’re alone. “Zoe, I um. Shit’s been different, like. I think for a long time I weren’t never…here, like.” He rolls his wrist in a circle, gesturing to everything. “Headwise. I ain’t been letting either of you bring me back, y’know?”

Zoe crosses her arms. She looks a little plaintive, like she’s waiting to hear more. “Not really.”

“I mean—” He lifts both his hands now, clenching and unclenching them like they can say the words he’s struggling with so much. They fall limp, back to his sides. “Zoe, you’ve gotta know what I mean. Of all people.” He drops his voice even more. It barely croaks out. “Like. You ‘n Georgia. Shit’s changed.”

Her expression remains inquisitively pinched for a minute, then shifts entirely to something a lot more somber. Thank fucking God for these sixth senses. Lucas straightens out again, puts his shoulders back into more of a line.

“With…” She nods with just a twitch of her neck to the lot. Their little group has begun to make its way down the path too, not far now from meeting them in the middle. Lucas only nods.

“That seems like something he woulda told me.”

“I’m as perplexed as you are ‘bout it, never said he couldn’t.” He glances over to the crowd again, a bit closer now, and clears his throat. “I just wanted you to know that. Since, y’know. I’m gettin’ all in touch with my honesty, my feminine side or whatever the hell. So.” He thrusts his hand out again, to her. “We’re good?”

She considers his hand for a long moment before placing hers over it, pushing it down. “Don’t think I’m gonna shake on that, but. I appreciate it.”

He stares at her too, for a long time, then nods curtly. “That’s fair.”

There’s a holler from up the path before anything else can be said, and they jog up the rest of the way to meet everyone.

As far as parties go, it’s a pretty decent one. They’re all there until sunset, separated into groups by who wants to be in the water and who’s staying on the sand, socializing accordingly. Lucas finds himself bemoaning the fact that Ethan’s worn trunks, but he hasn’t. The water’s cold, apparently, so he can’t be _too_ upset about it. And from the shore, he can get a pretty good view of every time those trunks start to slip down Ethan’s ass. Which is pretty nice.

Alex keeps him company on land, having been dug up by Tom at some point. They both start bickering once Alex brings up the whole texting thing; Tom defends Lucas’s right to remain silent, while Alex keeps extending his pinky for a promise of a reply. Lucas sides with Alex, eventually. Half to shut them up and half because he maybe, sort of means it. It’s been two nights, and they haven’t decided to hate him yet. Might be worth a shot.

By the time the sun goes down, Ethan seems to have had his fill of swimming. He trudges up the bank, dripping a little puddle around himself once he reaches everyone and takes a seat. The breeze has picked up in the later hours, with no sun to combat it now, and it isn’t too kind to damp skin. Ethan’s swaddled himself in a towel, still shivering when Lucas ducks a little closer, speaking under his breath.

“Want an excuse to dip?”

Ethan nods, keeping his voice low too. “If you’re okay leaving.”

Lucas smiles, signing the ‘okay’ with his hand before he stands and claps. Everyone turns to look.

“Ethan’s cold! We’re out.”

Which is not an excuse, nor is it the gentle exit he was expecting, but. The remaining guests wish them a good night and a safe ride home all the same. A few hugs are exchanged, the shortest being from Zoe as always, and finally they’re released from any last social bindings, free to trek back to the lot. Lucas shields his eyes when Ethan shucks off his swim shorts behind the car. He has, in his infinite wisdom, brought along a pair of grey sweatpants for a warmer drive home.

Being comfortable in public hasn’t taken hold quite yet. In private is another story. A slow going one, sure, but in the car with the streetlights again, Lucas is grateful to finally relax while he stares at Ethan—to actually let himself stare at all, no more shy glances he’s got to keep to himself. No longer on edge for the off chance that Ethan will catch him in the act. Which he does now, multiple times. He keeps taking quick looks out the corner of his eye, and every glance leads to the briefest moment of eye contact. Ethan smiles that much wider with each one. On the ninth go around, he keeps his eyes off the road for a lot longer. It’s probably only two seconds, but intimacy like that makes it hard to tell. Lucas gets nervous, makes an obnoxious smooching face back. Ethan snickers.

“You put on a big game for someone so damn bashful.” He reaches over, takes Lucas’s hand to squeeze it once. All skin and bones; the tendons in the back of his palm jut out into the front of Ethan’s, and he sighs. Before he lets go, he places Lucas’s hand back down on his leg. Slides his own hand down over the fingers, until his grip’s just barely on the inner thigh. He squeezes there once. Just a fraction more give to him here. Lucas’s jaw visibly sets when Ethan does that, legs squeezing together just as not-subtly.

They’ve had sex a couple of times--as long as you’re using a loose definition of the word. It’s more of a voyeurism fest, technically speaking, where Ethan will kiss him as he shoves a hand down his own pants, and Ethan does the same to himself. They haven’t yet touched each other. Lucas has maintained that boundary from day one, and Ethan’s more than happy to give him time to adjust—goes without saying, really. There are other ways to do things. And Ethan is, evidently, pretty good at these ways. He hasn’t once done anything that Lucas didn’t lose it for. Mostly, these things are moderately sadistic. Biting, restraint, denial, some breath play. Though, Lucas had been the one who asked to be choked, gasping it out because he had been close and if Ethan could please, just a little—a little tighter, yeah like _that_ —

Lucas has a habit of turning away when he’s close, hiding his face when he comes. It doesn’t take much analysis to understand why he might be a little shy about his expression during those couple of seconds. If he’s embarrassed about touching in public, Ethan can only imagine the torture of having someone witness the face he makes when he orgasms.

So the thing that drove him to the edge quickest, the best, Ethan had done to be sweet. He was expecting that Lucas might be annoyed with him for it, best case scenario he’d hide his face by kissing Ethan and moaning into his mouth. Indulging that masochistic tendency had been pure accident. But pain and this kind of sweetness are two wires that’ve been crossed, fused inside his brain by now.

Ethan had been holding Lucas’s hands above his head, with a knee jammed between his legs. A game they’ve played before.

“Not enough?”

“I’m—” Lucas huffed out at him, frustrated but too stubborn to admit it. Not close enough to be that mindless but close enough to wish he was. Ethan pressed his leg up harder, giving him a little more pressure to grind into.

“Ask if you want me to let go, and I will.”

Lucas just screwed his eyes shut, panting with an open mouth, thrusting down harder into the hardly yielding thigh. It hurt a little bit, in a way that he liked. “That’s. No, it’s—”

“It’s good?”

“Yes--”

“You’ll make yourself come?”

“Ethan—” His face pinched, voice pitching up in a whiney way like Ethan’s done something unfair to him. He was always a sucker for lines like that, and he’d thrown his head to the side, into the mattress.

But Ethan had grabbed his face that time, guiding it back to eye level. Lucas had opened his eyes wide, wild with the emotion of it all with a little fear mixed in, because this was something unusual. His mouth had dropped open, like he was about to accuse Ethan of something, or maybe complain. Quicker than he can get the words out, though, that semi-pained look as back on his face, lip quivering just slightly.

His legs tightened around Ethan’s, thrusts frantic and void of any rhythm because he just needed to get himself through it, coming on the spot for. Fucking eye contact, of all things. The most depraved, dirty thing Ethan’s done to him yet. Fight had been visible in him the entire time—not against Ethan, but against himself. Holding his eyes open through the whole thing like he’d been ordered to, and for once in his life he’s going to be good for someone.

Ethan leans against the kitchen counter once they’re home, yawning so hard his jaw pops.

“What, are you tired?” Lucas slouches next to him, arms crossed.

“Not as tired as that looked.” He rests his head in his hand. “But. Yeah.”

Lucas hums. “You look kinda burnt.”

“Oh, for real?” Ethan touches a hand to his cheek. Even before he touches, he can feel the heat radiating off himself, and supposes Lucas must be right.

“You’re pretty pink there. ‘N your nose.”

“It doesn’t hurt.” He yawns again, goes to comb his fingers through his hair. It’s all whipped up still from the wind, got that dried beach feel to it. Lucas is watching when he opens his eyes.

“Lookin’ ready for bed over there.”

There’s a hopeful lilt to his voice, and a question at the end. Like they haven’t been sharing a bed every night for a month now. Before that, even. Ethan sighs, shaking his head with mock disapproval as he puts an arm around Lucas. Lucas squirms, weaseling his way between Ethan and the kitchen island. It forces him upright, but he can actually hug back properly too. Ethan brushes over the fuzz on the base of his neck while Lucas buries himself further into Ethan’s chest. He sort of needs a trim.

“What about cake?”

Lucas shrugs. “Cake can be breakfast.”

Ethan snorts, pulls back to look at Lucas’s face to see how serious he’s being.

Lucas is just smiling up at him. Dumbly, a hard to come by pure joy on his face. Ethan’s heart feels like it’s fallen over, and he kisses Lucas’s forehead because it’s the only thing he can even think about doing. Lucas chases when Ethan pulls away, catches his lips just briefly and leaves them hovering nose to nose. Lucas’s breath is warm. Ethan can feel it across his cheeks, which he wants to thank God for.

It’ll always worry him. But Lucas is good for worrying about.

He runs a thumb down the side of Lucas’s face, down his neck. To the collar bone that still pokes out so harshly. His man of many angles.

“You’re really cute.”

Lucas scoffs. “I look like a corpse.”

“Well,” he leans back in, meeting Lucas halfway to kiss again. “It’s cute on you.”

Lucas ends up on top of him in bed, still fully clothed, even after Ethan’s been stripped of his shirt. He doesn’t do any proactive work on himself when he’s leading, which he sometimes does now, because he’s gotten a lot better at kissing and, therefore, a little more ballsy. He’s learned that Ethan likes it when Lucas is the one who licks into his mouth, when Lucas bites down, nearly into his neck and leaves marks. He knows how to do it right. But it’s still Ethan’s job to undress him, so he grabs what he can of the hood on Lucas’s jacket, uses it to hold him still as he unzips it and throws it to the ground. 

“You ain’t actin’ tired.” There’s teasing humor in his voice when Lucas says that. He pulls back, wiggling his hips as he sits up so they brush against each other just slightly. Like he’s proving a point or something.

“I said I wasn’t _that_ tired.” Ethan knees him off, flips so he’s got Lucas pinned by his wrists once more, leg hovering between his thighs. As if to foreshadow. “But if you want to do all the work, I’ll let you.”

“As if that ain’t the name of the game every time?”

He pouts. “Play along, I’m talking dirty to you.”

Lucas smiles lopsidedly, smug. His cheeks are turning pink as he stares, though, and Ethan can tell he’s thinking of something.

“What?”

There’s a tic he’s developed, where he worries at his lip before he makes confessions. Or does something especially affectionate, or—

Lucas grabs his wrist, tugs it forward until Ethan’s palm is resting on his zipper, and. It makes his mouth go dry, honestly. Because he can feel heat, even through the denim, and that’s more than they’ve ever given each other before. And of course Lucas is hard. Pressed against the front of his jeans for this, obediently. It’s not a shock. Ethan’s just never been able to really _know_ that. To be so intimately acquainted with how hot this gets him.

When Ethan doesn’t move, Lucas lifts his hips a little.

“You do it.”

He scoffs. “Oh, me do it?”

Lucas tries to look angry when that makes him laugh. “Just. I’ll do yours too, okay?”

“I don’t need payment for these services, what kind of man do you take me for?” Ethan smiles, tracing the outline of Lucas’s dick through his pants while he admires it. Lucas’s hips follow his hand, up and rolling, unskilled, into his palm. When Ethan lifts his hand entirely off, Lucas drops back down to the mattress with a huff. Ethan looks up to him.

He’s already looking away, eyes wandering to the ceiling, across the walls. Ethan uses his other hand to turn Lucas’s face back toward himself. Just with a nudge—grabbing comes later. Lucas’s breath stutters, Adam’s apple bobbing unevenly in his throat. But he keeps the eye contact.

Ethan presses his thumb against the button on Lucas’s pants.

“Okay?”

Lucas’s eyes flick down, but he still nods, so Ethan pops the button open, undoes his fly. He wants to ask permission again, but for brevity’s sake he just goes slow as he pushes down, past the waistband of the jeans and stopping at waist of his boxers.

“Can I take you out?”

“Uh huh.” He’s looking away again, profusely pink in the cheeks, embarrassed for wanting it as bad as he does.

“…You’re sure?”

“I—I said yes, damn! Just. Yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure, Ethan.” He crosses both arms over his eyes, bends his legs at the knees as if he’s wanting to curl into himself.

Ethan giggles, not without a little cruelty. He affords Lucas the mercy of tugging his pants off quick, leaving the boxers on. He palms at Lucas through the fabric one more time before dipping his hand below the hem, and guiding him out.

When Ethan takes him in hand, Lucas feels light-headed enough to pass out, thankful for the fact that Ethan isn’t moving yet. His grip on the sheets migrates up to Ethan’s hips, and he takes the opportunity to slide Ethan’s sweatpants off, again thankful that they’re just sweats. He isn’t sure if he could get someone out of their pants at the moment.

The angle they’re at, one on top of the other, isn’t the best for what they’re trying to do, so Ethan shuffles off, onto his side. Lucas rolls with, wiggling closer until he can rest his forehead on Ethan’s shoulder. It’s good for when Ethan starts stroking; he can turn his head, sink his teeth into the spot where shoulder and neck meet. Ethan gasps, grip tightening and making Lucas moan too.

Ethan works him slow, accepting the punishment of Lucas going slow on him too. It’s worth that; it’s just nice to be close. And maybe he’s reveling just a tad—in the warmth of arousal, in finally able to feel Lucas’s hips jerk into his hand, trying to get what he wants, even though he knows as well as Ethan that he’d beg to be denied it if Ethan went too fast. Lucas bites, licks over what’ll definitely be an angry bruise in the morning, and Ethan kisses the corresponding spot on Lucas’s neck.

“You can be patient, c’mon,” his voice comes out dry and low. Lucas thrusts into his hand hard.

“Not—no it’s. Ah, fuck, _Ethan_ —”

Which isn’t even a request, but Ethan already knows he can’t deny it.

He gives Lucas what he wants for a while, working him at just the right pace until he can feel Lucas’s breath pick up, feels his body tense, shudder. When he does that, Ethan nearly stops entirely—forces Lucas to pick up the slack and thrust into his hand, hopelessly chasing what Ethan won’t give him until he cries out, starting to come. Ethan rewards that by speeding up again, so he won’t have to fuck himself through it alone. Lucas brings a special kind of fervor to his own work after that. He rolls his wrist, bites and licks over the bruises he’s leaving, even murmuring little words of encouragement which he never does in bed.

He tells Ethan he’s beautiful, he’s perfect, he’s so fucking good, baby, he’s too much, he deserves this, deserves to come so come for me _please_. And Ethan’s caught off guard by himself. He arches into Lucas’s hand, moaning loud for a minute before he can have enough presence of mind to cover his mouth. Lucas doesn’t let up until Ethan’s pushing his hand away, with his whole body twitching and overwhelmed. He’s got his eyes shut tight—like he can’t even handle having all five sense right now.

Lucas is grinning wide at him once he opens his eyes again.

“That was cute.”

He hasn’t caught his breath enough to laugh, so he opts for flopping his head forward. “Don’t even.”

“What? It was, I’m just sayin’.”

Ethan just shakes his head, tips his face up to press a quick kiss to Lucas’s cheek. Rough with stubble, he doesn’t care. He’s kind of in love with all the rough parts of Lucas.

He’s pink when Ethan pulls away, eyebrows drawn together and he looks. Fragile, still. Like he always has, but there’s a paradoxical confidence to it now. Like he’s so ready to break apart, like he’s earned the right. He shuffles until his head is slotted beneath Ethan’s chin. Ethan can’t even bring himself to care about the mess. He just counts the bumps of Lucas’s spine on repeat.

“Thanks.” Lucas mumbles out after a long while, sounding so near sleep it’s painful.

“Thanks?” Ethan whispers back.

“For a lot.” He squeezes with the last strength he’s got. “’M too tired to go down the list.” Because it’s a lengthy one. Ethan better be okay with being thanked to Hell and back. “And I love you, also.” He tacks on at the end.

Ethan’s chest jumps, though it’s soundless. “Yeah?” A kiss to the top of his head. “I love you too.” There’s an unmistakable grin in his voice, one that Lucas knows is half happiness, half humor-born. He’ll own it.

“See you in the mornin’?”

Ethan nods, resting his cheek against the top of Lucas’s head.

“See you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO YEAH.........Thank you so much for reading, and all the wonderful feedback and kudos! Sorry this took a while, but hopefully it's been worth it! I love u all <3  
> As always my tumblr is halware/felsics (first is my main, second is my art), hmu if you ever feel like it...mwah!


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